Mercy
by Kennette
Summary: Life is tough when you're 17. It's that awkward time when you worry about acne and body odour, the hitman hired to kill you, and the stranger with amnesia who makes you question your sexuality. Yep, 17 is tough, but Sam might not make it to 18. AU Slash
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Life is tough when you're seventeen. It's that awkward period when you experience the last few inches of your growth spurt. When you worry about acne and body odour and hair in unusual places. When you find out your mom has committed suicide and has left you all alone. When you're almost killed by a hitman hired by your stepfather. When you meet a stranger with amnesia who makes you question your sexuality. Yep, seventeen is tough, but luckily for Sam, he might not live long enough to see eighteen.

**Timeline**: Alternate reality: Sam is 17, Dean is 21, and they're not brothers

**Rating: **M

**Warnings:** Foul language, drug use, violence, adult themes, and sexual content. Contains SLASH. Some pretty messed up things happen in this story, so if you're sensitive then don't read it. Just warning you.

* * *

><p><strong>MERCY<strong>

Chapter I

/

_"When you fall what happens when you're landing?"_

- _Wooly Wolly Gong_, Tuneyards

/

He was going to kill me, and it took a while for that fact to fully register in my mind. After all, this was the man who had sometimes murmured 'be careful' when I decided to sneak out of the house. This was the man who had told the odd corny joke and smiled a little when I laughed. He was probably one of the few decent people who worked for my stepfather, so of course it made sense that he was the one who had been sent. I had always wondered how Bobby earned his large pay check, and now I understood. Bobby was my stepfather's personal hitman, and today his job was to kill me.

Yet that was ridiculous, because hitmans were for informants and rats; dirty politicians who went against their word and thought they could get away with it. I was a nobody. I was the son of a dead woman. I was the teenager my stepfather pushed aside and ignored on a daily basis. I wasn't the type of person you ordered a professional to pop.

Yet here I was, cornered outside of a moving train, somewhere between a locked compartment and a man holding a gun. There was nowhere left to run. I felt the wind whip my hair furiously to the side, the dark strands flying over a sheer fifty foot drop to a sparkling lake below. I didn't have time to admire the view, however, because the train was rocking dangerously beneath me and I was having a difficult time keeping my footing.

It was tough to believe that it had been only minutes ago that I sat comfortably in one of the passenger seats, staring out at the fleeting scenery while on my way to some unfamiliar state across the country. Sneaking onto the train had been surprisingly easy, but I had a feeling that I would be getting off before the next stop. Behind me, the door that led to the subsequent compartment was locked, and trying desperately to open it again was going to be of no use. It wouldn't budge.

Bobby looked grim as he stared at me from across the tiny bridge that connected the two booths. Part of the man's face was cast in shadow from the usual cap he wore, but I could still discern the lines that bracketed his frowning mouth. He didn't want this any more than I did. In fact, 'I'm sorry' had been the first words he had said when he appeared standing in the train's empty aisle, looming above me. My first thought had been that he was there to drag me back to my stepfather, but there was no way I would allow _that_ to happen. I would rather die, and apparently I was going to get the chance to prove it.

"You don't have to do this!" I shouted, my words almost torn from the air by an angry gust of wind. "Bobby, _please_!"

I hadn't intended to beg for my life, but as tears blurred my vision I found that I was absolutely terrified. I was only seventeen, for god's sake. I still had my entire life ahead of me. I still needed to experience so many things, like my first job and my first beer and my first kiss. I still needed to _live_. I suddenly felt resentment towards myself for having spent my high school years with my nose stuck in a book. Way to fucking go, Sam.

The train rocked back and forth violently and I almost lost my footing as I let out a yelp. Twisting my hand on the door handle I held onto for dear life, I ignored the pain that tore up my arm. My mind was too preoccupied by the fact that Bobby now had the gun pointed at my chest.

"I'm sorry!" Bobby called again, and I knew that he somehow meant it. The man's teeth were clenched, his jaw firm, and his greying eyebrows were slanted downward in what appeared to be anger - perhaps hatred towards himself. A part inside of me _prayed _that he hated himself for this. But Bobby was obviously a professional, and I understood that nothing I did or said now would stop him from pulling that trigger. So I did the only thing I could think of.

I jumped.

In the future, when I recalled what happened afterwards, my memories would be draped in a thick haze mixed with feelings of terror, alarm, and awe. I was falling, and then I was gazing up at the train, the locomotive disappearing into a dark tunnel carved into the mountainside. It was leaving me and no one but that man I had once laughed with knew that I had even been aboard.

Panic consumed me, making my vision dim and my heart pound, but for a moment I caught a glimpse of the lake below. The water was sparkling like a pool full of diamonds, and I couldn't help but think it was absolutely beautiful. But then I realized that I was about to fall on those sharp edged diamonds, and another scream was ripped from my throat.

/

My strongest sensation when I awoke from unconsciousness was the cold. The freezing numbness that encased my body was like a blanket of icy needles that wrapped around my limbs, turning them into useless weight. It spared no surface, a million pinpricks, and as I opened my eyes, brown smudgy darkness was what greeted them. There were no sounds in this strange place, and no air, for when I opened my mouth something else poured in. Now I was choking, but I couldn't move to eradicate the liquid from my throat. The numbness had crept too deep and I was just a floating body.

Now nothing but a mind, unaware of its limbs and attachments. A motionless object in a silent world.

Then something pulled me away from the comfort of the passive sleep I was quickly slipping into. I was suddenly aware of my body again, but as soon as sensation flooded back I wished that the numbness would take its place once more. I didn't care if I never tasted chocolate or if I never felt the pleasure of hot water pounding onto my back from a shower head again. I was in pain, and I would do anything to make it stop.

No such luck, though. Someone was pounding on my chest, and whoever it was, they weren't being gentle about it.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Something soft against my lips and then a pressure deep in my torso, like a balloon being inflated. The force grew stronger as the pain in my chest intensified dramatically. I wanted to scream, to clear my lungs and _breathe_, but I couldn't move. I was completely helpless, and the panic coursing through my body was only making it worse.

Something burst, and suddenly I was coughing up huge amounts of water. I felt like I was drowning all over again. Then I was inhaling deeply and I could feel sweet, precious air fill my lungs. I coughed and inhaled until my body began to relax and I found that I could breathe normally again. My eyelids slid open and I was met with a bright glow that nearly blinded me. I couldn't help but wonder if I had died and gone to heaven.

Damn. I must have, because a man with an angelic face was leaning over me. His hazel eyes were almond shaped and flecked with gold, like shiny treasures lying beneath the surface of a shadowy river. They were the strongest feature amongst a sculpted face. With a strong chin, Greek nose, high cheekbones, and pouty lips, he was definitely some sort of angel, as fucked up as that sounded.

"You alive?" he asked. His voice was deep, and I studied the words, trying to interpret them in various ways. My mind was obviously disoriented, because I couldn't come up with an appropriate response. Of course I was alive. I was breathing and thinking and the pain in my chest was still burning away, so I was definitely-

That's when I realized I wasn't in heaven, and this wasn't an angel leaning over me. My muscles protested as I skittered back, sand flying outward and clinging to my wet clothes, encrusting them in an uncomfortable grubby layer. My eyes widened, the colour returning to my face in a flush across my cheeks.

"Who're you?" I demanded. A strand of dark hair hung before my eye, and I swiped it back angrily as I waited for an answer.

The stranger was kneeling in the sand, dressed only in a pair of drenched boxers. His dark blond hair was plastered to his head, his face emotionless. "You were drowning," he announced.

"I was…" I trailed off and my eyes narrowed for an instant before I tilted my head upwards to the bridge that stretched above us. "I was riding the train."

Yes, and then Bobby had shown up and had tried to kill me, forcing me to risk my life by pulling off the stupidest stunt I had ever performed. Jumping from a moving train and into a lake fifty feet below definitely topped throwing water balloons at tourists in Central Park.

"Then you were falling," the man added, speculating that I may have forgotten that part. "And _then_ you were drowning."

My eyes flicked back to the stranger. "You saved me?"

He nodded his head, one slight dip. "No one else here to save your sorry ass."

I said no more as I shifted my body, testing my limbs out. They were sore and every inch of my skin still smarted from impact with the lake, but my muscles relaxed somewhat. Pulling my knees to my chest, I began to wipe the sand from my jeans as best as I could, but after a few strokes I gave up and leaned back on my hands instead.

Someone… had tried to kill me. Someone I knew and had even liked. It was a strange feeling, and I was not sure if the shock of it had left me yet. It all felt like a bad dream. In fact, this whole _week_ had been a nightmare. I half expected to wake up in my bed at any moment, covered in sweat as I laughed at what a stupid dream I had just had.

The stranger suddenly rose from his knees and ruffled his hand through his hair, messing it up. The light from the setting sun painted his outline in a soft glow, his short hair almost like a spiky halo around his darkened face. He looked like a shadow surrounded by light, and I couldn't help but let out a little gasp at the contrasting image.

That's when the stranger turned around, revealing a display that I knew I would never forget. They were angel wings. Painted with black ink across his entire back was an intricate tattoo of angel wings. The curved tops covered his shoulders and cascaded down in florid feathers until the tips disappeared just below his boxer line. All I could do was stare. The sun was setting to the left, just behind the bridge, and the softly glowing rays were hitting the man's back at such an angle that the wings actually looked real. For that moment I almost believed that there was an angel standing before me.

But the effect was instantly ruined as the sun disappeared below the horizon, the valley being plunged into a dusty twilight. The man walked over to a pair of jeans that were strewn across the beach near the water's edge, picking them up and pulling them on. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it of the image I had just witnessed, the being in front of me now just a human being with a strange tattoo. However, the picture refused to fade, and I felt my irritation level begin to spike.

"Who are you?" I asked again, finally disrupting the stillness. The man turned his head, glancing over his shoulder.

"I don't know," was his reply, and that was enough to make me a little confused.

"You don't know?" I asked with plenty of skepticism. "How can you not know who you are?" The stranger opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off before he got the chance. "Okay, I get it. You're a whack job, right? There's probably plenty of you around here. There are a lot where I come from too. I'll just leave you alone."

I tried to stand up, my sudden alarm enough to allow me to forget the pain in my chest and the weakness sheathing my limbs. However, before I could take a single step my legs buckled beneath me and I crumbled to the ground. The man caught me just before I suffered my second fall of the day, moving with a speed that rivalled an athlete's.

"You wanna walk after that kind of fall?" he asked as he set me down softly on the sand, his hands gripping my shoulders gently to steady me.

"I'm fine," was my weak comeback, but the panic had vanished as quickly as it had come, and now I just felt exhausted. I wanted to brush his hands away, to tell him not to touch me, but instead I let my limbs relax as I settled on the ground.

"Yeah, you're definitely fine," he said as he looked down at me. "Did you injure your head as well?"

"Fuck off," I mumbled. When he smirked I could hardly believe it.

He sat down beside me, choosing a cross-legged position that looked oddly childish. "I really don't know," he insisted, his eyes trained on the darkening lake as the amusement vanished from his face. "I don't know who I am."

"What, you mean you have amnesia or something?" Like I was going to believe that.

"Maybe." He inhaled deeply. "Maybe not. I can't remember."

"Yah, I think we've cleared that one." Letting out a sigh myself, I ran a hand through my tangled hair as I watched a small breeze skim across the water's surface. It was just my luck to be rescued by a nutcase. "Do you at least know why you're out here in the middle of nowhere?"

I waited for a response while trying to wring the water from my shirt, but when the man said nothing I stole a glance beside me. His head was tilted downwards, his back perfectly straight with his hands resting on his knees. Damp hair stuck up at odd angles from his scalp.

He looked… completely lost.

"Wow. Not even your own name, huh?" I stared at him for a little longer as the water cooling on my skin caused me to shiver. The man didn't seem to hear me, lost in his own thoughts. "Well," I grunted as I attempted to rise slowly, testing my legs before I trusted them with standing again. "It was nice meeting you, but I really have to get going."

He looked up, his face blank. "You're leaving?"

"Yep. So, um, thanks for saving me and everything. And good luck with…" I looked around the area; at the lake and the narrow beach that surrounded it, the trees and the mountains. "Remembering."

I began to walk away, prepared to trek through whatever wilderness I had to in order to reach civilization again. I needed concrete and asphalt, towering buildings that soared above my head and blocked the sun. Green, leafy trees and rocky mountains simply unsettled me. I felt like I was on an alien planet or something.

The _swish_ _swish_ of the man's jeans told me that he was following me. "What are you doing?" I asked without stopping or turning around. I kept my tone patient, unwilling to upset this guy purposely. He may have saved my life, but that didn't mean much if he was secretly planning to murder me in the woods. Or do worse things.

"It'll be dark soon."

"Your point being?"

"It's not safe in the woods at night," he answered. "You could get hurt."

That stopped me in my tracks. Honestly, I didn't know whether to take his words as a threat or not. Did he mean he'd kill me if I left right now? Or was he truly concerned about my safety?

"Look," I began, my back still turned to him but my ears strained and my legs ready to run. "Thanks for saving my life and everything, but trust me when I say that you don't want to get involved in my business."

I waited for a moment, even now refusing to look back. Let him figure out if my own words were a threat or not. When no objection arose, I took another step forward and-

He followed.

I whirled around, my tangled hair whipping painfully across my face. The sting only added to my annoyance. "Did I say you could follow me?" I shouted at him, the aggravation clear in my voice. At this point I didn't really care if he _was_ some psychotic murderer. I escaped death one time today. I could do it again.

The man came to a sudden halt as well, one foot hovering above the sand. He raised an eyebrow before responding, "No."

I shook my head furiously, unable to comprehend how a human being could be so clueless. "Then why _are _you following me?"

He smirked as he folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not."

"Right." Hands clenched in fists and eyebrows slightly raised, I adjusted my tone until it was pleasantly sarcastic. "So if I decide to turn around right now you're just going to keep on going?"

"Maybe." The man nodded his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

I snorted. My voice had lost any fake pleasantry it had once harboured and was now an angry cutting knife. "You're so full of crap, you know that?"

Nevertheless, the man simply stared, his face a smooth mask. "I saved your life."

"Yeah, and I said thanks already. What else do you want?"

He shrugged. "Help me remember who I am."

I stared at him, flabbergasted. "How do you propose I do that?"

"Well, you can start by telling me where we are."

"You really don't know?"

"Would I be asking if I did?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You're really rude, you know that?"

"I could say the same about you," he said. "Especially since you won't even do this simple thing for me after I saved your life."

"Fuck you," I retorted, angry that this guy thought I owed him something. "I didn't ask you to save me."

"Look, it's obvious you don't value your own life very much but it should at least be worth what I'm asking."

"What the hell are you talking about? I value my-" I shook my head angrily. "Never mind. Let's just make a deal. I lead you to New York City, and then we split ways. Sound fair?"

"New York?"

"You _do_ know what New York is, don't you?"

He looked at me like _I_ was stupid. "I have amnesia. I'm not an idiot."

I didn't feel like arguing anymore, but I mumbled "Could have fooled me" underneath my breath as I turned around. With those last words, I continued my trek into the forest that lined the narrow beach, the sound of a second pair of footsteps barely discernible behind me.

* * *

><p><strong>To be continued.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

/

"_So take me to town, I wanna dance with the city._"

- _The Boxer_, Editors

/

We walked silently for what seemed like hours, our path lit by the soft glow of the moon. We were lucky that the night was clear, or else we would have been forced to make our way by touch alone. Climbing hills and stumbling over rocks in the pitch-black did not particularly appeal to me. It was nearly dawn by the time the mountainous forest landscape settled down into flat terrain. We emerged from the shady woods just as the sun's first rays spilt out upon a wide expanse of yellow grass. The field stretched outward to the left and right and as far as the horizon, resembling a giant yellow blanket. And smack in the middle, like a tear in the material, was a rusty railroad track.

"Perfect," I said, turning around as the man approached behind me. I had kept a particular distance between us the entire journey, and he had respected it. Now he came and stood on the edge of the hill with me, staring out across the expanse of yellow.

"Perfect?" he asked. "What's so perfect? All I see is field. No city."

"We can catch a cargo train here. If one comes along going in that direction-" I pointed to the left. "We can hop on and it'll bring us right to New York." I placed my hands on my hips and grinned. "All the way back to New York City and out of this godforsaken wilderness."

I heard the man laugh and turned to see what was so funny. He was staring at me with an amused expression. "Proud of yourself, huh? You look like you just won a gold medal in the Special Olympics."

Surprisingly, I didn't get upset. My good mood wouldn't be dampened by his teasing now, because my ears suddenly picked up the sound of a distant whistle. We both turned our heads in the direction it drifted from. The land was completely flat, and to our right emerged the shape of a train moving steadily across the land.

"Now _that's _what I call luck," I whooped, and then I was running. I took off like an arrow, running straight ahead and aiming for the railroad track. I was fast, and it took the stranger a good portion of time to catch up with me. The yellow grass brushed our legs as we ran, trying to reach the tracks in time to intercept the locomotive. Fortunately, it was an extremely long freight train, towing thousands of pounds of cargo compartments, a few of them open and empty. Still, we reached the tracks just as the last few were passing by, giving us one chance to catch a ride.

I was breathing heavily as I tried to jump into an open compartment, but the train was moving too quickly and I couldn't pull myself up. I had always been athletic, playing soccer in high school, but I hadn't slept or eaten in over 24 hours. I was clearly tiring and I knew I wouldn't last much longer. Ahead of me, the man jumped and threw himself into the opening, muscles bulging as he pulled himself up. He immediately twisted around and reached out an arm, offering his hand for me to grab hold of.

The shock on my face was probably clear, but I wasted no time in shoving my hand into his and allowing him to help me up. When we were both safe, sprawled out on the dusty floor with chests heaving, I began to laugh. The man looked over at me, watching as my body shook with laughter. My face was probably flushed from running, my hair a tangled mess of wavy, dark hair around my head. I didn't care. I had just survived death. I was now in the company of a strange man claiming to have amnesia. I would soon be back in New York City, along with the man who had tried to kill me and the man who had commanded him to do it.

The train ride took shorter than I expected, though I slept most of the way. The soft swaying of the compartment reminded me of a rocking cradle. Maybe I was crazy to let my guard down while with a stranger I met in the wilderness, but a combination of my fifty foot dive, night-long trek in the forest, and marathon sprint to catch a train did me in before I could even close my eyes. Who knew? Maybe I had a concussion. The last thing I remembered was laughing for no particular reason, and then I was dreaming.

A flood of images drifted through my mind: my stepfather's grinning face, my mother's sad smile, Bobby's angry frown, a sparkling diamond lake, and then hazel, gold flecked eyes. That's when I awoke to the train's loud horn. The stranger was sitting in the furthest corner of the space, where the sun barely reached, and I wondered if he was slumbering too. He spoke right after the thought had entered my mind. "What does your tattoo mean?" he asked me.

I was confused for a moment, but then I remembered the Chinese character inked on my inner left wrist. I sat up as I recalled the moment I had received it. It had hurt a lot at first, but then my body had grown accustomed to the sting of the needle and the pain had transformed into a strange numbness.

"It means mercy." He didn't say anything in response and a silence quickly grew between us, broken only by the creaking of the train as it rocked from side to side. "Yours must have taken a lot of time to do," I inferred, and he looked at me, clearly not knowing what I was talking about. "The tattoo on your back. Didn't you notice it?"

The man twisted and looked over his shoulder. He stared at his tattoo for a moment before turning back and leaning against the compartment wall again. "Huh," he said. "Wonder why I got that."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Must be weird not remembering anything."

The stranger raised an eyebrow. "So you believe me now?"

I shrugged. "Well I guess it's a little hard not to. I mean, why would pretend to have amnesia? And if you _are_ actually pretending, I guess I don't really care either way." He glanced at me curiously. "Well it's not like you've forgotten _everything,_" I pointed out. "You still know how to talk, right? I mean, you still remember the English language and how to swim and all of that stuff."

He nodded his head.

"So you just can't remember stuff that _happened_ to you. You know what ice cream tastes like, and the feeling of a bee sting, but you just don't know when you first experienced that stuff. So why should that concern me? You're a stranger anyway."

He nodded again, and I asked him, "So what's your earliest memory?"

"Waking up on the shore of the lake. I opened my eyes and I was lying on the beach, looking up at the sky."

That sounded oddly familiar. "Do you think you fell? I mean… like me?"

"It's possible. My skin felt really tingly and I had some bruising. That was three days ago."

"Huh." I scratched my head. "And you had nothing on you? No wallet?"

"Nothing. Just my jeans. There was a shirt too, but I tore it while climbing a tree on the second day. I wanted to see further, but when all I saw were mountains I decided to stay by the lake for a while."

"Why didn't you follow the train tracks?" I asked.

He pondered that for a moment. "Guess I was hoping someone knew where I was, that they'd come and find me. I thought it would be best to stay in one place."

"What'd you survive on?"

"Fish," was his simple reply.

"Fish?" I wondered how he had caught them. "If you fell, maybe you hit your head or something and it made you forget."

"Maybe."

I waited for him to ask about my own situation, why _I_ had fallen off the bridge, but he remained mute. I was sort of grateful for that, not wanting to explain or relive the moment, but it was also a little upsetting. Didn't he care? Wasn't he just a _little_ curious? Apparently not, and as the stranger continued his monk-like silence, I crawled over to the other corner of the compartment and waited patiently for the train to reach New York City. All trains in this area went to the Rotten Apple, and even though that meant I would be returning to the place where certain people wanted me dead for reasons unbeknownst to me, I figured that Bobby would report back to my stepfather with positive news. After all, I had been lucky to survive that fifty foot fall. John probably thought I was dead by now.

I needed answers. Answers as to why I had been placed on a hitman's 'to kill' list. Answers as to why John wanted me dead. I needed to know, and although I had no clue as to how I was going to approach the topic, I would get an explanation one way or another. But first I had to lose the extra baggage.

"So what are you going to do when we get to New York?" I asked.

The stranger stood up and made his way to the open door. We were slowly traveling passed farm land, a random barn drifting by now and again. "Don't know. To be honest, you're the only person I really know right now."

I thought that over. If this guy was telling the truth, that meant I really wasthe only human being he knew. Putting myself in his position, I would probably be scared shitless. "New York's not a great place to be wandering around clueless," I said.

"I know." He continued to stare out at the passing scenery. "But what else am I going to do?"

I bit my lip, knowing that I was probably going to regret my next few words. "How old are you?"

He turned his head to look at me. "Don't remember. Why?"

"Well I'd say you look about twenty, which means you're definitely not over twenty-five, so you'd probably be welcomed where I'm going."

He smiled a little. "I thought the deal was we split ways once we reach the city."

I shrugged. "I'm about 83% sure you're not a psycho. Plus, you saved my life. I think I was being a bit harsh earlier. I can try to help you out at least a little."

He let out a short laugh. "Only 83% sure?"

"Maybe 82."

He nodded, but then his face grew serious as he looked at me with a peculiar expression. "What's your name?" he asked.

I couldn't believe I hadn't mentioned it already. "Sam," I said. "Sam Winchester."

/

I admit the building wasn't much to look at. Constructed from dull, grey bricks, probably sometime in the early twentieth century, it looked like it was about to collapse. Its flat roof was sinking dangerously low at one corner. It was two stories tall and fairly wide, a set of parallel windows lining both levels.

"Is it some sort of prison?" the man asked as he eyed the rusty mesh wire splayed across the windows.

I shook my head. "Nope. It's a shelter. Those bars aren't meant to keep anyone in, just to keep certain people out." He followed me up a set of cracked, concrete steps and onto a rickety porch that looked like it could use a fresh layer of paint. Or maybe just a demolition crew. A faded welcome mat lay on the porch, and I walked over it as I entered the building, pushing open the door as if it were my own home, not even stopping to knock.

The room we stepped into was a massive foyer. A fairly wide stairwell stood on the left and an open entrance to the right portrayed a glimpse of some sort of recreational room. Inside I could see several teens huddled around a pool table and a few others chatting on couches pushed into a corner. The entire level was outfitted in wooden floor planks that sported numerous scratches, the off-white walls holding a few dents as well.

"So this is… your home?"

"Nah. Well, sort of." I shrugged. "I've slept here a few times and I have friends who live here, but it's kind of just a place where young people can come to hang when they don't want to go home. Or don't have one to go back to."

I had always gotten a good vibe here. New York was a busy place, full of traffic and loud noises, pollution and cramped buildings. Yellow taxis were _everywhere_, and so were business people shouting at their cell phones and hotdog stands parked on street corners. It was a miracle that anyone could stand to live here, but I was one of them. At night time the city could turn a bit intimidating, though, and this place had helped me out a number of times. Like on those rare occasions when my stepfather decided to actually sleep in his own home.

"Let me show you around," I proposed as I began to walk towards the rec room. Upon entering the space, a few of the kids looked towards us but quickly turned back to their games and conversations, uninterested. "You're lucky we didn't pick the pink version of that shirt," I said, nodding at the 'I'm Awesome' shirt the man was wearing. They had swiped it from a bargain store minutes after arriving in the city, and its brown colour was an improvement from his bare skin when it came to not attracting attention.

They moved on to the eating area, a large room crowded with plastic tables and wooden benches. "They cook the food in there," I explained as I pointed to a closed door. "Today's Tuesday, so… hotdogs. God, I'm hungry."

From there we visited the lounge, which wasn't much more than a room with a dingy TV and a few ratty couches, and then to a couple of offices where the people running the shelter worked. Upstairs there were hallways full of doors that lead to countless bedrooms. "There's always a few rooms open. Basically, if the door isn't closed, it's free for the taking." I headed down one of the halls. "Here, we'll find one for you." We passed a few younger kids on the way. I sensed that the man had stopped behind me, and I turned around to see what the problem was.

"You don't have any shoes," a little girl proclaimed, pointing down at the stranger's filthy feet. He followed her finger's direction, wiggling his toes and making the girl giggle. The sound brought his head up again, and I saw a flicker of a smile on his lips. A little boy grabbed the girl's hand and then they were running down the hall.

I had once had a little brother. For nine months my mom had carried him around in her belly, but then she had delivered a stillborn. I was ashamed to admit that I had secretly hoped that he wouldn't live. I wanted the baby to be spared the type of childhood I had experienced, though looking back on it now, I wondered if my stepfather would have treated his own kid the same as me. John had been pretty torn up afterwards. It was probably the closest I had seen him to actually acting like a human being, and that made me wonder if he would have loved his son.

"Sam?"

I blinked, realizing that someone had called my name. The man was gazing at me keenly. "What?"

"You looked like you were thinking of something painful," he said, and the simple frankness of the statement caused me to stammer over my next words.

"I just- I was just remembering something about my mom."

"Your mom?"

"Yah, my mom." My tone grew sharp. "Just forget it, okay?"

His expression didn't change as he continued to stare at me with incisive eyes. Luckily, I was saved from any further questions by a hand falling heavily on my shoulder. I turned around and was met with a familiar face, and for the first time in a long time a genuine grin broke open on my lips.

"Ash!" I shouted at the tall, ruffled man standing in front of me. I`d recognize that outdated mullet anywhere. His eyes were the colour of chocolate, squinting as he smiled lazily.

"Hey there, Sam." he drawled. "Long time no see."

"I know. It's been what… Half a year?"

"More, I think." His smile suddenly disappeared, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. "Hey, look, I heard about your mom. I just wanted to say I'm-"

I lifted a hand. "Don't say it, Ash."

He looked saddened by my reaction, but made no attempt to go against my wishes. Instead, his attention shifted towards the stranger. After looking him over, he gave me an expression that indicated he didn't even want to ask. "Heads up, by the way. There's a new rule around here."

"Yeah?" I gave him a questioning look. "Hit me."

"Well, apparently they're going to make everyone have some sort of therapy session if they want to stay here. Something about _analyzing the troubles of youth and addressing them_." He said this last part in a scholarly tone, making me chuckle. "There's a shrink walking around," he continued. "So lay low, all right?"

I nodded my head. "Gotcha. And thanks."

"No problem. See you at dinner?"

I nodded. Before disappearing down the hall, Ash gave the stranger one last questioning look, but apparently decided that he wasn't worth the time. I turned to face the stranger. "That's Ash." I indicated the retreating young man with a quick jab of the thumb over my shoulder. "He's really smart. He even went to MIT before they kicked him out. When he talks, you should pay attention, because it's usually something important."

The stranger followed me into one of the rooms lining the hallway. It was small and sparsely furnished, with no window and a bed pushed into one corner, a tiny dresser in the other.

"All right, this is your room for now." I stood in the middle of the space. "There's a lock on the door but it only locks from the inside, so don't leave anything valuable in here. Not that you really have anything that anyone would want to steal." I sighed, slapping my hands together. "And that's about it. Oh, and if anyone asks, just make up a name or something, kay? Say you're from Manhattan."

Pleased with my tour, I stepped past him to exit through the doorway. He turned to watch me as I swivelled around to face him one last time. "Showers and laundry are down the hall and to the right. Dinner's served at seven, so be down there then, okay? I sit in the far corner with Ash and Jo."

Just before I stepped out and closed the door, he called my name. I poked my head back in. "Thanks," he said, and I shrugged.

"Just get your memories back soon so I can stop babysitting you."

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

/

_"We are all illuminated"_

_- Illuminated_, Hurts

/

"You're new."

"I am." The woman reached a hand forward. "Pleasure to meet you. My name is Ellen. Ellen Harvelle." I glanced at her outstretched hand, making no attempt to shake it, before returning my unimpressed stare to her grey eyes. I hated shrinks.

"I hate shrinks," I stated, noting the woman's annoyed expression. The wrinkles on her forehead deepened.

"Hm. That's too bad." She let her hand drop to her side, her round face reminding me of an overbearing motherly figure; the type who always had a wise word to say, even when you refused to listen. Like I was currently doing. There was _no way_ I was about to give this woman even a minute of my time. I had been warned by Ash to avoid her, but unfortunately she had snuck up on me when I was on my way to the washroom. I knew if I stuck around for much longer she would be trying to convince me to spill all my deep dark secrets.

No. Fucking. Way.

To prove my resistance, I sidestepped her and continued my journey to the washroom. "Wait," she called after me, but I ignored her, disappearing into the room and slamming the door behind me. _Try to follow me in here_, I thought to myself with a smirk. I did my business and then waited for a few minutes, hoping the shrink wasn't persistent enough to wait outside for me. I stood in the small space, staring at myself in the mirror. The sheet of glass had a crack right down its middle, like a strike of lightning. I positioned myself so it looked like it was splitting my face in two, each side uneven.

I realized then that I hadn't seen my reflection for quite some time. Looking at it now, I noticed that my hair was too long. It covered my ears, flipping out at the ends in some places. If I didn't swat it to the side it would hid my eyes. I'd lost the last bit of my baby fat just the year before and my face looked oddly hollow now. This year had seen my continued growth spurt, and I supposed I was almost six feet tall. That was nice, because I'd always been short before, and middle school was hell for short kids. I didn't know whether to call myself scrawny or lean. I supposed I was somewhere in the middle. For a year I'd practiced Parkour in the park with a group I knew, and it looked like it had paid off a little. I could see some muscle on my arms.

I was seventeen years old. I'd be eighteen next month. _If_ _I lived that long_, I added in my mind.

It was five minutes before I dared to poke my head out of the washroom. Thankfully, the shrink was gone. I went downstairs and made my way towards the loud chatter emanating from the eating area. Upon entering the crowded room I looked over the numerous kids, ranging from ages ten to twenty-five, until I spotted my two friends sitting in the far corner.

I walked over to them, and just like I had predicted, Jo's high-pitched squeal was the first thing to greet me. The girl was bouncing in her seat and dressed in preppy clothes. She looked ridiculous sitting next to Ash. However, that didn't stop the two from being good friends, Ash twenty-three and Jo just having turned seventeen last month. The girl practically threw herself at me, strangling my neck in a hug until I could barely breathe. When she finally let go, she sat back down and leaned forward, watching me intently as I took a seat on the bench cross from the two.

"So, who is he?" she asked with that creepy tone she always got when talking about guys. "Tell me _all_ about him. What's his name? When did you meet? How? Where? Is he cute? Does he have a girlfriend?"

She barely took a breath as she asked several more questions in quick succession, and I laughed to myself. Yep, Jo was just the same as always. I decided to start with the first question. "I don't know his name because _he_ doesn't know it."

"Wait, what?" Jo looked puzzled and even Ash was leaning forward now.

"He has amnesia. I can't really tell you much about how and where I met him, but he saved my life so-"

"He _what_? He saved your _life_?" Jo was practically on the other side of the table now, her eyes wide. I had said too much. To be honest, I didn't want Jo and Ash mixed up in my business because getting involved was obviously dangerous. I had bruises to prove it. Putting them in harm's way was something I would _never_ do, so telling them anything about my stepfather or his plot to kill me was out of the question.

"Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"Oh, no you don't!" Jo objected, raising a finger and wagging it at me. "You can't say something like _that_ and just expect me to drop it. Come on Sam, I'm gonna kill myself if you keep being-"

Ash cleared his throat, loud and obvious, and Jo shut up immediately. He had obviously already spoken to her about my sensitivity to certain topics, and the girl quickly leaned back and began fiddling with a napkin. "Well, we have to give him a name…" she mumbled.

"Give amnesia boy a name?" I gave her a weird look instead. "No way." Then I reached out and snatched the hotdog from her plate, suddenly realizing that I hadn't eaten all day.

"But he _has_ to have a name," Jo wined, not even noticing her missing food. "We can't leave him nameless. It's worse than being homeless."

I supposed she would know. Jo practically lived in the shelter. She'd been like that, homeless and without family, for the two years I had known her. When she wasn't sleeping here, she was in some ratty motel with a client. I had told her a few times to switch careers, but every time I had brought up the topic she had gotten angry. Now I simply accepted that the sweet, innocent girl smiling across the table from me was a prostitute. I rolled my eyes even though I knew the expression would do no good to deter her. "There are plenty of things worse than being nameless. Besides, I think 'hey you' is just fine."

"That's because you're mean and stupid," snorted Jo disapprovingly as she crossed her arms.

I let my jaw drop, exaggerating my outrage. "_Excuse me_?"

The girl opened her mouth to say something else, but Ash suddenly interrupted. "I already know his name."

"Huh?" We simultaneously turned our heads to stare at him. "How?"

"He told me it. His name is Dean."

Jo gave me a glance before she prompted further. "It is?"

"Yah," Ash nodded as he chomped down on a fry. "His name's Dean."

"Wait, what?" I was confused now. "When did he tell you his name?"

He cocked his head to the side as he thought about it. "A couple of days ago."

I shook my head as if the motion would make the situation reasonable. "But you just met him this morning."

Ash took a bite of his hotdog, speaking around the mass of food. "He was here a few days ago."

"I was?" The voice came from directly beside me, and I looked up to see Dean standing by the edge of the table. He had obviously taken a shower, his hair now light and soft-looking instead of greasy and matted. His jeans looked washed and dried as well. He still wore the 'I'm Awesome' shirt and no shoes, but his feet were clad in grey socks.

"I guess you don't remember, considering your amnesia and all," Ash winked, raising his hotdog in the air as he gestured to the bench I sat on. "Take a seat, Dean."

"I've been here before?" Dean asked, sitting down as I slid over. He barely glanced at me, his attention focused on Ash.

"You seriously don't remember?" Ash gave him a wary stare, like he thought he was lying. Then he pressed his lips together before explaining, "You pulled some kind of karate crap on Vince and his guys. You're damn lucky they ain't here right now or you'd be dead already."

"You've been here?" I questioned Dean, still unable to get my head around that fact. It was too much of a coincidence, but the confusion on his face told me he was just as puzzled as I was.

He shrugged. "Guess so."

"Vince," I stated, addressing Ash. "You know why Dean was kicking his ass?" Vince was not someone who was often messed with. There were rumours going around that he was a drug dealer, and a fairly dangerous one. He came to the shelter once and a while to stir up some trouble. He didn't often do much harm, so he hadn't been banned yet, but I had always had the suspicion that one day someone would end up hurt or dead because of him.

"You were looking for someone," Ash told Dean. "Didn't catch the name, though. Vince and his friends must have given you some attitude and you let them know you didn't like that."

"I say anything else to you, besides my name?"

Ash shook his head. "Afraid not. After you did the beat on Vince I came up to congratulate you on a job well done. You introduced yourself as Dean and then you left. Never saw you again until today."

"You know where I can find this Vince guy?" Dean asked.

"Whoa, hold on." Ash raised his hands in front of him. "You sure you wanna find him? He's out for your blood, compadre."

"Just tell me where he is."

"All right," Ash said in his lazy drawl. "But don't say I didn't warn yah." He shook his head slowly, like he was about to hand a set of car keys to a drunk. "He usually comes by the shelter every couple of weeks. You wait here long enough and he's bound to show up again."

Dean sighed in frustration. "How long do I have to wait?"

"Don't know. I'm not Vince's secretary, but waiting here ain't so bad. You can hang with Jo and Sam and me." He grinned. "It'll be fun."

/

One hour and four hotdogs later, Dean and I found ourselves on the roof of the shelter, facing the waist high ledge and looking out at the bright city. Ash and Jo were down in the lounge watching the latest episode of _Gossip Girl_, a show I had absolutely no interest in.

"So _Dean_," I began, drawing out the name now that I had something to call him. "Any memories returning?"

"Nope."

"Nothing at _all_? Even after you found out your name?"

"Nothing."

"Jeesh, you'd think you'd remember falling fifty feet."

"Maybe you could tell me what it was like," Dean suggested.

I looked at him, but then quickly turned my gaze to the city. The conversation had started out light, but I knew it was going somewhere much darker. A place I didn't want to go, but found I couldn't really avoid. "It's not fun," was all I said. Truth be told, it was _terrifying_. It was like... I couldn't continue to think about it because suddenly I was reliving every moment of that horrible event.

"I think I have an idea how it would feel," Dean said, pulling me away from my sudden terror. "I feel like I'm constantly falling, but I have no idea when I'm going to hit the ground. I can't even see where I'm going to land. I can't remember why I fell, or where I fell from, or if I even fell at all. There's just darkness everywhere. I can't see anything."

"Your memories will come back," I reassured him, though I didn't know where my confidence came from.

Dean let out a chuckle, the sound lacking any humour. "What if I don't want them back?"

I glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"Not remembering could be better. What if all my memories are bad ones?"

"Everyone has at least one good memory."

"Maybe that's the only one I won't get back," he said grimly.

We were silent for a few moments. Then I decided to speak. "People who've survived really big falls… you always hear them say things like, 'It felt like I was flying', or… 'I was floating'. Some crap like that. Well, they're obviously lying because it's _nothing_ like that."

"What was it like?"

I clenched my fists. "It was… It was the most frightening moment of my life. I wasn't flying or floating. I was _falling_. I was falling to my death, and there was nothing I could do about it. All I could do was…" I trailed off, but Dean finished my thought for me.

"Watch as death grew closer and closer."

"Yeah," I agreed. "And wonder what was on the other side."

"What lies on the other side of the impenetrable surface..." Dean's voice had grown distant, and he said those last words almost to himself, or perhaps to no one at all. "Why'd you do it?" he asked suddenly. I looked over at him but his eyes were on the sky. I wasn't quite sure what he was looking at. Trying to find stars in New York City was like searching for water in the desert.

"Do what?" I inquired.

"Jump."

I didn't understand what he meant at first, but then it came to me. Dean thought I had jumped from the train by my own free will. He thought I had tried to commit suicide.

My first reaction was anger. My life was obviously not perfect, but I'd _never_ take that route out of it. I was about to explain to him what had really happened when I realized that would be a mistake. Maybe it was better this way, having Dean think I had jumped from the train willingly. Technically, I had. He didn't have to know a gun had been pointed at my head at the time. Telling him a hitman may still be on my trail was going to do no one any good. Like I had said the first time I had met him, he wouldn't want to get involved with me or my problems.

I shrugged. "I guess I was just having a bad day."

"Bullshit," Dean said. "No one tries to kill themselves because they had one bad day."

"My mom killed herself," I blurted out. I had no idea why I said it, or why I had the sudden urge to tell Dean everything I had been struggling to accept for the past few days. I physically bit my tongue, not caring if I tasted copper.

"Why?" he asked, and I couldn't look at him. Instead, I stared at my clenched fists, which were resting on the cement ledge. I didn't answer him because I didn't know 'why' myself. I didn't know why my mom had decided to take her own life, and I wanted to tell him that. There was just something about him... I couldn't quite place it, but he was easy to talk to. Maybe it was because he had amnesia. His lack of memories made him seem unprejudiced, like I could say anything and he would never judge. I was about to let everything out, every pent up emotion that had threatened to shatter me from the inside out, and almost had on a number of occasions, but instead I bit my tongue harder.

"You feel that she abandoned you," Dean said. It wasn't a question, but a statement. And it was true. My dad had died when I was five and afterwards my mom had raised me on her own. We had done all right, even if we lived in a ratty apartment with some annoying lady as our landlord. I was happy. Still, my mom wasn't used to living on her own, so she ended up marrying this rich guy. She said it was love at the time, but… well, she never got over my dad, and I later understood that the part of her that had allowed her to love had died with him.

Funny thing was, this guy she married, _John_, ended up being some major mob boss or something. There was no proof of course. I mean, it's not like I ever witnessed him kill a guy or found his secret stash of smuggled cocaine, but it was easy to tell. Just the way people looked at him... They treated him with respect. Not because he was some awesome business man, but out of fear. They were terrified of him.

My mother was no exception. She was scared too, but she never left him. Even when she had bruises the size of continents, she stayed. I hated her for that, but I didn't try to run away either, because I could never leave her behind. Besides, someone had to stand up to John, and I was the only one who would. I was just some stupid kid to him, so I got away with a lot of the stuff I pulled, but there were a few times that… Well, it was worth it.

It was just last week when I woke up to the worst day of my life. It seemed like every other morning, except my mom wasn't in the kitchen when I went to eat breakfast. She was always there, either preparing food or sipping her coffee. So upon finding the kitchen empty, I went to look for her. I knew something was wrong, but… I would have never guessed that she'd leave me that way. She had _left _me, and now I was alone.

"It just doesn't make any _sense_," I heard myself say aloud.

"What doesn't?"

"My mom's death..." I mumbled. "Something's off about the whole thing." I thought for a moment. I'd been having strange thoughts ever since that day, but this was the first time I was voicing them out loud. I couldn't see it before. I was too close to it, but after everything that had happened since then, I'd taken a step back. "The puzzle's missing a piece," I said.

"And now you're searching for it?"

"Yeah, I mean…" I stopped myself from saying anything further, afraid revealing more would be a bad idea. But my mom had been acting weird the night before she had taken her life. Usually she said goodnight to me from my bedroom door. A quick head pop in and a blown kiss, but that night I remember her coming in and sitting on my bed. She looked at me really intensely, told me she loved me and always would, and then she kissed me on the forehead and walked out. I remember that being kind of strange, but then she turned around just before exiting and told me we were leaving. I mean, I couldn't believe it at first. I had begged her over and over again in the past to leave John and just run away, and now she was finally agreeing to it. I was so happy.

But that didn't make any sense. Why would she say that? Why would she tell me that and then kill herself? She _wouldn't_ do that.

Realization suddenly dawned on me and my eyes widened. Fuck no. She couldn't have been. My mother couldn't have been...

My breathing began to accelerate. It was the only way to explain it. My mother knew something. She was close to John. She had been his wife for ten years, so she must have found out something in that time. And she was planning to split. John must have found out, and that's why he sent Bobby after _me_. He thought I knew something too, so he sent someone to kill me, just like he had killed Mary. I knew John was capable of such actions.

All this time I had been resenting my mother, convinced that she had killed herself and abandoned her only son, but now I knew that wasn't the case. Not even close. I wanted to finally allow myself to grieve for my mom, an act I had been unable to do because of the anger that had clouded my vision before, but I wouldn't allow myself to. Not with Dean here. I couldn't cry in front of him.

"Sam, you okay?" I heard him ask, and I realized I was gripping the edge of the building's ledge with white knuckles, staring down at the city. I could only imagine what I looked like. Dean probably thought I was planning to jump off the roof.

"Yeah," I answered in a distant voice. Then I cleared my throat, tearing my eyes away from the long drop down.

"You think your mom would have wanted that?" he asked me in a hard voice. "You think she would have wanted you to kill yourself too?"

"No," I said honestly, though I couldn't meet his eyes. "She wouldn't have."

"Then stay away from ledges," he said as he placed a hand on my chest and pushed me back gently. I couldn't tell if he had just made a dark joke or if he was serious. Looking up, I registered real concern on his face. By now, tears were threatening to cloud my vision, so I blinked rapidly and turned around before Dean could see them. Then I was walking back into the building. I didn't stop until I had entered a random room and locked the door behind me. Then I curled up on the bed and finally allowed myself to mourn.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

\\\

_"Before you know it, you will be gone, gone, gone."_

_- Club Thing_, Yoav

\\\

For three days I rarely left my room. I barely ate. Jo and Ash tried to visit me but I never let them in. Dean knocked on my door once on the second day. At least, I thought it was Dean. Jo went as far as to call the shrink, but when I told the lady to fuck off she stormed away angrily after giving me a few choice words herself. I decided to like her a little more after that, but not enough to talk to her.

On the fourth day, I began to feel slightly claustrophobic in my room. The swell of grief and guilt I had felt upon realizing the true circumstances surrounding my mom's death had festered and rotted into something awful. It was so bad that all I felt was numbness now; like that was my body's way of dealing with the invading emotions.

I needed to feel something other than the pain and numbness. I needed a better cure. I'd never been much of a drinker, but I knew enough about alcohol to understand that it cured most ailments of the tormented soul. Or at least it seemed to for a little while. When Ash cornered me in the washroom and told me he was dragging me to the club that night, I didn't object.

And so here I was. The place was packed, dancing bodies everywhere. Over three hundred people had been crammed into the building tonight, and the walls looked like they were about to burst. The lights were spastic, splashing colours all around: on walls, ceilings, people. The music pumped through the sweaty air, a super-paced rave song.

I stood on the edge of the main crowd with Ash and Dean by my side, leaning back against the glass bar. I'd never noticed it before, but in here it was clear that Dean held some sort of aura around him. He gathered looks from practically everyone who passed him. Some were good, like the one he was receiving now from a passing woman in a short green dress. Others were bad, like the constant glares he got from guys here with their girlfriends. Still, no matter the intent, most of the looks held a tinge of fear in them, and I had to wonder why.

Ash rubbed his hands together. "You ready to party?" he asked us.

"What does your mullet say?" Dean inquired.

I rolled my eyes as Ash ran a hand through his hair and drawled, "Business up front, party in the back." He grinned. "I say I'm ready to party, but Dean, the real question is whether you even remember _how_ to party."

Dean lifted an eyebrow, purple light splashing over his face as he stared into the crowd. "Guess we'll have to see."

I sighed. "Yah, well I'm not really feeling it tonight, so you guys go ahead without me." I didn't want to admit that I'd never been to a club before. I wasn't even old enough to be allowed in, but Jo had known the bouncer at the front door, who she had later disappeared with. I was just here to drink. Not dance.

Ash turned to look at me, slight concern on his face. "You serious, Sam?"

"Yah, I'll just have a couple of drinks."

Ash looked as if he was about to protest.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Dean said. "Make sure he doesn't hit any of the hard liquor." It angered me a bit how he said this, like he was on suicide watch or something.

Ash nodded and then gave me one more glance before turning back to the crowd. "Suit yourselves," he said before disappearing into the mass of moving bodies. As he vanished, Dean turned towards the bar and ordered two drinks.

"You know, I don't need to be babysat. I'm not going to try to drink myself to death or anything," I said, making sure my words sounded as bitter as I felt. He glanced at me briefly but didn't say anything. I gave him a dirty look, but I knew I couldn't blame him. I hadn't exactly denied that I'd tried to kill myself earlier. Still, I couldn't help but be angry that no one knew what I was going through right now. That no one knew the truth about my mom or my stepfather. I understood it was unreasonable, but it was kind of like I just expected everyone to know without being told. Especially Ash or Jo. Even Dean.

Maybe I'd allow myself to get drunk tonight. Maybe I'd drink until my head split open and the world drained away for awhile.

"Here's your drinks," the bartender announced as she placed two shot glasses before us filled with a clear liquid. Dean nodded thanks, paying with money I had no clue how he had come across. He gained a sly smile from the bartender before she was called away. I reached out to take my drink and downed it in one go. It burned my throat, but I refused to cough.

Dean stared at me with a slightly surprised look. "Bottoms up," he said after a moment, tipping back his head and performing the same disappearing act with his drink. He slammed the glass on the counter, immediately ordering two more.

I could tell Ash planned on going absolutely crazy tonight. The man had hopped onto the dance floor only minutes ago but already he had found two ladies who seemed to be drunk enough to let him dance with them. I turned back towards the bar and Dean handed me another shot glass. "You better not be a lightweight," he said, and I drowned by irritation by knocking the drink back. As I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth I watched as Dean slammed his glass down again. He looked at me and smirked. I couldn't help but return it. Already I felt a warm fuzziness building in my head, like bubble wrap being wound around my brain.

The song changed. A man's voice was heard with an edgy beat in the back.

_'I feel like playing the game tonight_

_This town gets lonely after midnight_

_And when the animal hunger runs deep_

_I know I'm never gonna get to sleep' _

Dean's eyes were on the crowd. I followed his gaze. It was difficult to make out individual people in the spastic lights. The group was a living mass of torsos and limbs, all intertwined as couples grinded and strangers danced.

_'Well some people claim but I know, I know'_

Two seconds later and a woman appeared before Dean, her hand already skimming down his arm. She was hot: blonde and busty. She spoke to him, leaning in close to his ear, but I couldn't make out the words her lips formed.

_'The deepest, darkest place to go'_

Dean nodded and the woman smiled.

_'You never get out once they let you in'_

She turned around and disappeared into the crowd.

_'You`ll be nothing but a club thing'_

I wanted to ask what she had said, but Dean was ordering two more shots. My throat was already used to the burn as I swallowed my third drink of the night. I wondered if this would be enough to get me drunk. I was tired of thinking. Dean leaned towards me to yell over the music. "I'm going to the washroom," he said, and I nodded my head. The room seemed to tip with me, and I held a hand against the bar to steady myself. I watched as Dean disappeared into the crowd.

To be honest, I was sort of glad I was alone, if only for a few moments. That meant Dean didn't think I was much of a suicidal risk. Or maybe he just didn't care. What had given me the impression he did in the first place? He had saved my life before, but he hadn't known me then. He didn't know me now. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to sort these things out, but the bubble wrap surrounding my brain only got thicker.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" I looked to my left where a woman was leaning an elbow on the bar. Her torso was facing me, her breasts practically visible due to the skimpy shirt she wore.

"S-Sam," I stammered, and she let out a laugh.

"How old are you?"

_'What would you say to be paid_

_To be one of the beautiful?'_

I hesitated. "Twenty-one," I answered, this time with more confidence even though I was lying.

_'Such a beautiful face_

_Such a beautiful girl.'_

"You don't look twenty-one," she said as she raised an eyebrow. Her makeup was smudged. Charcoal black smeared under her eyes made her look older than she probably was, but I could tell she wasn't more than twenty-five. "You're adorable," she added as she came closer, running a hand through my hair.

My muscles locked up. I wasn't exactly sure how to respond. "Thanks," I managed to say, and she laughed again, but this time her voice held something more than amusement. Something deep and husky.

_'You need a cold soul of concrete here'_

Her hand tightened as she grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me closer. "You wanna get out of here?" Her breath tickled my cheek.

_'Just like the soul, the soul of the city'_

Something wet touched my ear and sent a shiver running down my neck. I felt a hand snaking up my thigh and a rush of heat flowed through me because I knew this was wrong. But I didn't seem to care. It was like the bubble wrap around my brain was keeping my thoughts from reaching my body. I still thought them, but I couldn't react to them.

_'He knows that he's the king_

_The king of the cardboard jungle'_

Teeth bit my earlobe and tugged. Then words flowed into my ear again. "Follow me," she said as she took my hand and led me through the crowd. Bodies were all around me, bumping and touching and grinding.

_'Well, he's got a hunger_

_For the sweetest of flavours'_

Suddenly I was in a darkly lit room. I could see shadows of people, all hidden in the corners. All writhing and moving. I knew what they were doing. As my eyes adjusted I noticed a cushioned couch winding its way around the room. The walls were a deep red, the cushions black leather. The woman pushed me onto the couch at the far end of the space. Then she straddled my lap, giggling the entire time.

_'Well, don't worry, baby now, it won't be long'_

She leaned her head against mine, breathing into my ear. "You wanna get fucked with me?" She leaned back, looking into my eyes, and I couldn't respond verbally. My mouth wasn't working. Instead, I nodded my head.

_'Once the hunger starts to take you in'_

She smiled, and then something round and small was passed through my lips. It was a pill, and I swallowed before I could think it was a bad idea.

_'Before you know it, you will be gone, gone, gone'_

She was unbuttoning my pants. Whatever she had slipped me was making me feel _very_ good. She bit my earlobe again, and I could feel every sense of contact like it was magnified. I knew we were about to have sex right here in public, but everyone was busy doing the same thing. No one cared, and I didn't either.

Suddenly, she was being pulled away. I watched as she screamed angrily and kicked at the guy who'd pulled her off of my lap. "Hey, take it easy," a familiar voice said, and I suddenly realized who the person was. "Sam, tuck that back in, would you?"

I looked down at my unzipped pants and followed Dean's orders. Every action seemed like it was in slow motion. Sounds travelled like I was underwater. I could hear the woman cursing and see Dean holding her wrists as she tried to pummel him. She finally gave up and stormed out of the room. I began to laugh. "Dude, she was gonna kill you."

"Are you fucking high?" Dean asked as he bent down and looked into my eyes. "Shit. Did she give you something?"

I couldn't stop laughing. "You're such a cock blocker."

"Stopping you from having unprotected sex with a woman you haven't known longer than five minutes?" He grunted as he helped me up from the couch and onto my feet. "I'd call that being a damn good friend, jackass."

"Fuck you too," I spat as he helped me stumble out of the backroom. "It takes you ten minutes to take a piss?" When Dean didn't answer I scoffed before growling angrily, "Practice what you preach." I was remembering the blonde that had approached him earlier.

"It was just a blow job, Sam."

I didn't even know how to respond to that. Mainly because the music had changed again and the electronic sounds were like a futuristic war in my brain. The lights were suddenly lasers piercing my eyes, and I squeezed them shut. Then I reached out blindly until I found Dean, grabbing his shirt and shaking him. "We're at fucking war!" I yelled over the din. "The robots are gonna kill us! Their lasers are everywhere! Save yourself!"

He gripped my wrists tightly and I opened my eyes. His expression read concern, and I suddenly understood... I'd been hit. The lasers had gotten me. I was dying.

"Save yourself!" I repeated as I tried to push him away. "I'm already dead."

"What the hell did that bitch give you?" he asked, looking at me like I was a nutcase.

"I'm gone, gone, gone," I began to sing. I felt someone bump into me as they walked by. "We're at war!" I shouted again, trying to warn the passing man. I wanted to run after him, but Dean's hands still held my wrists. I turned frantic eyes towards him. "They're gonna kill us all!" The electronic noises were increasing in pace, and I knew the robots were coming closer. I looked around me. The lasers were everywhere.

"Shut your eyes," Dean said, and I complied, my world transforming into darkness. I felt him release my wrists and his palms press against my ears, the sounds of war suddenly growing distant. My hands were still twisted in his shirt, and as he began to walk backwards I followed him. He led me like that for a few minutes, slowly. When I felt cold air on my face I finally opened my eyes again.

We were standing outside the club in an alleyway. It had obviously been raining earlier because there were puddles everywhere and the brick walls were damp. A few people were smoking to the side, and as Dean's hands lifted from my ears I could hear the city's sounds. The song from the club was nothing but a distant noise now.

"We escaped the war," I said, looking around the alley. "But not the alien planet."

Dean frowned. "She messed you up good, didn't she?"

I took in a deep breath as I finally released my hold on Dean's shirt. "_You_ messed me up."

"_I_ did?" he asked, surprised. "I think it was that little pill you swallowed. You know, the one that crazy bitch gave you?"

"No," I said, holding up my hands and beginning to stumble my way down the alley. "_You_ did, with all your amnesia crap."

"So let me get this straight," Dean said as he walked alongside me. "You're messed up because I can't remember who I am?"

"You and your stupid questions," I explained. "You made me realize everything was wrong, wrong, wrong. Now I'm gone, gone, gone." I was inching my way along the alley's brick wall, trying to avoid a large puddle that Dean was casually trudging through. But now I was on a narrow ledge, the puddle transforming into a deep, clear pool. I was sort of amazed at how Dean could be walking on water, but there was a school of angry piranhas swimming towards him. "For Christ's sake, Dean!" I screamed as I pulled him towards me and the safety of the ledge. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

He grunted as we collided, by back pressing into the brick wall. He tried to move away but I held him with all my strength, afraid he'd try to walk on water again and be killed by the piranhas. I knew the angry little bastards were hungry.

"Sam, what the fuck are you doing?" He demanded to know as he continued to struggle against my grip. I wondered how he could be so stupid.

"The piranhas want to eat you, dumb ass," I explained. "I know you're like Jesus and can walk on water and crap, but I'm pretty sure they can jump. They'll eat you! But don't worry, because the ledge is safe."

"Sam, let go of me."

"No," I said. "You're going to get yourself killed. Can't you see the piranhas?"

"They don't exist, Sam. You're high. You're imagining it."

"But what if I'm not?" I could feel panic welling up inside of me and I gripped his shirt tighter, pulling him closer. He had to place his hands on the brick wall on either side of my head to stop from losing his balance and falling forward. "I don't want you to die, Dean," I said, looking up at him. "You can't die."

"Jesus Christ, Sammy..." he said in a deflated voice as he let his head fall forward, his forehead almost touching mine. I took it as a sign of defeat. Victory was mine. Dean wasn't going to break free and be eaten by flesh-eating piranhas. I would keep him here on this ledge forever if I had to. We'd never jump.

I felt something slide against my thigh and panic gripped me again. "Dean," I whispered quietly. "Dean, there's something in your pants. I think it's a snake."

"It's called a boner, Sam."

"A boner?" I was silent for a second. "Why?"

He sighed heavily again, like he was tired, shifting his head so the sound of his exhale was right next to my ear. "Because you're really close to me right now... and I can't help it."

"That makes no sense," I said. "You named your pet snake 'a boner' because of me? That's a strange name, Dean. What if your snake gets loose and you have to chase it through the park. You wanna be calling that name out when children are around?"

Dean burst out laughing. "Damn, you are so far gone right now."

I peeked around his shoulder, making sure that the piranhas were gone. Surprisingly, the deadly pool had been reduced to mere puddles. They were full of goldfish, but no piranhas.

"They're gone," I whispered, letting go of my grip. Dean stepped away and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked uncomfortable and I guessed goldfish made him more nervous than piranhas.

"Watch you don't step on the goldfish." I pointed to a deep puddle swarming with the yellow creatures as I walked around it. Dean followed. We carefully stepped around the small pools of water as we made our way to the entrance of the alley.

We emerged onto a sidewalk that lined the side of the club. Dean cursed as he looked down the street to where a few taxis were parked. "I don't have any more cash."

"Let's go back in and find Ash," I suggested, already turning towards the entrance.

"Bad idea," Dean stated as he grabbed my arm and turned me around again. "I don't need you freaking out again and shouting about some alien war with machines and crap."

I was about to argue that Megatron was a friend and would protect us but then I saw something too strange to ignore. A group of large, hairy men were walking towards us and I pointed to them excitedly. "Look, Dean! Cavemen! My time machine worked!" I stared at them with eyes as large as saucers. "They're so _primitive_."

The group of cavemen were only a few feet away now and staring at us with furrowed eyebrows. They all had long beards and hair, and they stopped right before us, a number of them making a series of low grunts. I laughed. "Dean, look. They're trying to communicate with us." I stepped out in front. Dean tried to pull me back but I shrugged his hand away. The primitive men were a bit scary looking, especially in their leather jackets, but when did you get the chance to speak with real cavemen?

"_My name Sam_," I said, pronouncing each word slowly and clearly as I pointed to myself. "_What are you called_?"

"You want me to beat the living shit out of you, kid?" one of the cavemen asked as he took a menacing step forward.

Dean finally managed to pull me back, stepping in front of me. "Uh, that won't be necessary. I'm really sorry. My friend, he, uh... he took some bad drugs and now he's acting kind of insane. You really should just ignore him. He doesn't mean it."

The cavemen made some more grunts before carrying on. I watched them go. "That one was really advanced, huh?" I said. "I mean, he spoke such good English and he even knew a swear-"

Dean clamped a hand over my mouth and pushed me back into the alley. My back slammed against the brick wall as he leaned in close and pinned me with his eyes as well as his arms. "Do you wanna get yourself killed?" he hissed. "Those guys were going to fucking kill you."

I tore his hand away from my mouth. "I think I can take on a few cavemen, Dean. I have thousands of years of evolution on them."

"Those weren't cavemen, Sam. They were Hells Angels. You just called a group of Hells Angels fucking _cavemen_!"

"Dean," I stared at him with large eyes. "Dean!"

"What?" His expression softened, but he was clearly still pissed. "What's wrong now?"

"You have to go after them," I said, pointing in the direction the group had disappeared. "They're your family."

He rolled his eyes as he stepped back, his anger having receded somewhat. "Ha ha, Sam. I didn't know you were so funny when you were high. Come on, we've got to get you out of here." He grabbed my sleeve and began to lead me out of the alley, but I refused to follow.

"No, Dean. They're your family. You're an angel too. You have wings!"

He stopped and stared at me. "I'm not an angel, Sam."

"But you look like one," I whispered, looking down at my shoes. "I thought you were an angel the first time I saw you."

Dean didn't speak for a moment, but then he said, "Come on, Sam. We've got to get you someplace safe." He eyed me warily as he added, "Somewhere you can't get into any more trouble."

I nodded my head, suddenly fascinated by my untied shoelaces. I stared at them the entire time we walked, wondering if they preferred to be tied or loose. It looked painful, the way they were swirling around and hitting the cement with every step I took. I cringed. I swore I could hear them screaming in pain.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

/

"_To go beside you is where I want to be._"

- _Bonfires_, Blue Foundation

/

_What happened last night? _

That was the second foremost thought in my head as I looked around the motel room.

_Why is there a miniature demolition crew destroying my brain?_

That was the first. I supposed the two questions were connected somehow. I just didn't remember _how_.

"Sam," I said aloud, trying to calm myself down as I sat on the double bed in the middle of the room. The white sheets were twisted around me, my legs entangled in them. "Try to remember. What did you do last night?"

I really did try, but my mind kept coming up blank. It was like someone had stuck a vacuum in my ear which had sucked out my memory of the entire night. All I could recall was arriving at the club with Ash, Jo, and Dean, taking a few shots, and then... Nothing. Not until I awoke a few minutes ago in an empty motel room, staring across the room at myself in the dresser mirror. Damn, I looked like crap. I felt like crap too.

As I tried to ignore the brain-splattering headache pounding in my skull, I realized I was parched. Abandoning my hopeless search for my memories of last night, I disentangled myself from the bed sheets and walked over to the washroom. I moved like an old man, any fast movement making the pain in my head increase tenfold. I pushed open the wooden door and flicked on the light, immediately hunching over the sink and gulping down mouthfuls of water. I felt the liquid go down, leaving a faint chill in my chest.

When I'd finally had my fill I splashed a bit of water on my face and turned the tap off, raising my head to see close up what last night had done to my face. A yellow sticky note was plastered to the glass.

_Sammy,_

_Money on dresser. Call a taxi. Have fun feeling like crap._

_Dean _

I stared at the words for a while, rereading them a few times to make sure they really formed the sentences I thought I saw. And the names. Dean had been here. He had called me Sammy. That sparked a memory from last night and suddenly I was recalling most of it. Fuck. I'd been drunk. And then I'd been high. And then I'd... Done more than a few stupid things.

A mixture of emotions suddenly attacked me, the predominant ones being embarrassment and horror at what I had done. Had I really almost had sex with a complete stranger in the back room of a club? Had I really called a group of Hells Angels cavemen? Had I really kissed Dean? Wait, what? That hadn't happened, had it? No, no, no. That definitely hadn't happened. I was straight. I wouldn't kiss a guy. Even if I was high and out of my mind, I wouldn't-

"Fuck," I said as I stared at the yellow post-it note. "What the fuck?"

Though my memories were still hazy, those I was currently in the process of rediscovering were not doing much for my hangover. I traced the events of the night, recalling most of what had happened up until me and Dean had left the alleyway. Then I was suddenly in a room with a bed and a dresser and a television in the corner. The motel room...

/

"Why are we here?" I asked as I touched the wall, skimming my fingers over it. The white paint was flaking, and I suddenly withdrew my hand. "The walls have bad dandruff."

"Because you can't cause trouble here," Dean said as he took off his jacket and sat down on a corner of the bed. "I have some place to be and you need to sleep off the drugs and alcohol. You're going to feel like crap in the morning."

I swayed in the entranceway for a moment before walking over to the window across the small space. Dean followed me with his eyes, probably waiting for me to trip and fall flat on my face. But I kept my feet, even as the room swayed from side to side like a swing, because I had to make sure it was safe. I pulled the drapes back an inch, peeking out at the city. "What if he knows I'm here?" I asked in a low voice.

"Who?" I knew Dean was asking only to amuse me. He probably thought I was still speaking about the robots, but they were back at the club. Their laser beams couldn't reach us here. Wherever _here_ was.

"My stepfather," I told him, my eyes glued to a shadow walking down the street outside. I let out a sigh of relief as the person it belonged to entered a door and disappeared. "What if he sends someone else after me?"

"Sam, please don't start with the paranoia," Dean groaned. "I really cannot deal with a high _and_ paranoid Sam right now."

"But he could be sending someone right now," I protested. A warning bell went off in my head, but I ignored it, swatting at my face like the sound was a swarm of flies around my head. "Like on the train. He could send someone to kill me again."

"Kill you?" There was an edge to Dean's voice now. "Sam, look at me."

I turned my head. Dean looked serious as he sat on the edge of the bed and pronounced his next words slowly and carefully. "Sam, did you jump from the train, or did someone push you off it?"

I paused for a moment, thinking. I remembered that I wasn't supposed to tell him the truth about that day, but I couldn't recall the reason why. "I jumped."

Dean sighed. "So you _did_ want to kill yourself."

"No, no, no," I protested, shaking my head from side to side. "I wanted to _live_, Dean. Why else would I jump?" I laughed, throwing my head back. The movement almost made me lose my balance and I caught the windowsill behind me to steady myself.

"People who throw themselves from trains are either suicidal or crazy," Dean said, turning his head away like he was done with the conversation.

"Untrue," I claimed. "I'm neither." As I sat on the window ledge the curtains brushed against my back, and for a moment I swore I was underwater and leaning against a forest of seaweed.

"Whatever, Sam." Dean looked at me, but I couldn't quite read the expression on his face. He looked mostly irritated. "You sleep here for the night. I've got to go take care of something."

I wanted to ask him what he had to 'take care of' but I was feeling kind of offended. "If there was a gun pointed at your head, I think you would have jumped too," I mumbled as I turned back to the window. A group of teenage girls were walking down the street now. I waved to them but they didn't notice me.

Silence stretched and filled the room for a minute, but then Dean's voice spoke up, the edge in his words sharper than before. "Who was pointing the gun at your head, Sam?"

"Bobby," I said in a small voice, leaning the side of my head against the window pane. "He used to tell me corny jokes. I liked him." I let the drapes close again and turned around. The lighting in the room was horrible, a single bulb shining from the small entranceway, but I could still see the look on Dean's face. It was pity. "Fuck you, Dean," I spat suddenly. I was angry at that look on his face. "You think you can look at me like that because everyone I liked is either dead or trying to kill me? Stop looking at me like that!" I felt tears brim in my eyes.

"Sam, calm down."

"Why?" I shouted. "Someone tried to kill me, Dean!"

"I know, Sammy. I know now."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" I asked as I stumbled to where he was sitting, bending down so that I looked firmly into his eyes. "I don't like being called Sammy." I wanted my words to be taken seriously, but they were a bit slurred. That made me scowl.

Dean met my eyes. "You never told me that."

I let out a huff, about to retaliate with full force, but then a wave of dizziness washed over me. I reached a hand out, trying to steady myself before I tipped over. My hand grabbed Dean's thigh, and suddenly I noticed how close we were. Our eyes were still locked, and our noses were just a few inches from each other. I had leaned in to enunciate each of my words so that Dean would understand my hatred for the nickname 'Sammy', and now we were so close I could feel his warm breath on my skin when he spoke.

Before I realized what I was doing, I had closed the space between us, meeting soft lips. As soon as we touched my first instinct was to draw back again. Somewhere inside of my mind I registered that I was kissing a dude, but my body was flooding the rest of my brain with pleasure. I had instinctively reached one hand up to stop from toppling forward, and now my palm was placed on Dean's chest. I felt his hard muscles; his heart thudding strongly through the thin cloth. A tingling heat coursed through my body and I felt myself shiver against his warmth.

But Dean wasn't into this. His body had gone rigid as soon as our lips had met, and I realized that this wasn't a kiss. It was me being an intoxicated jackass. I drew back sharply, about to apologize profusely and drown in my own embarrassment, but then I felt a hand grip the back of my head and push me forward again.

Our kiss deepened as our lips were crushed together. Now Dean's body was all action. He kept our lips from parting as he slowly stood up and turned me around. The back of my legs were digging into the edge of the bed as he pushed his body forward, causing me to lose my balance and fall back onto the mattress. I didn't mind the scratchiness of the covers as I shuffled back. My mind was too occupied by Dean's other hand, which had slipped beneath my shirt and was now sliding up my abdomen as he balanced on his hand and knees above me.

I felt like I should stop for a moment and think things through, but as our mouths met again I had the sudden urge to taste him. Slipping my tongue between my teeth, I met the other man's lips. They tasted like cherries. Jo's cherry chapstick. Pushing past the barrier, my tongue entered his mouth where a new flavour was found. This one was purely Dean, and I knew I'd never taste anything so delicious, even if I were to live for a hundred years.

Dean suddenly broke away, kneeling on the bed as he pulled his shirt over his head. I watched in the dimness as his chiselled torso was revealed. The lighting of the room caused the several scars on his chest to stand out, and I reached up a hand to trace one with my fingers. The scar was a silver line in the light, stretching from the bottom of Dean's left collar bone to the middle of his chest. I supposed it was directly above his heart, and I wondered how he had gotten it. As I ran my fingertips across his chest I left goose bumps on his skin. My eyes drifted downward and for a fraction of a second I felt fear. _What am I doing?_

A hand grabbed my own and I lifted my eyes. The gold flecks were barely visible in the darkness. Dean's eyes had darkened and I could hear the rhythm of the man's breathing change as he stared down at me. Each breath became louder, deeper, and I noticed for the first time that night that Dean wasn't exactly sober either. Then he was pressing his lips against mine again, parting them with his tongue, and my thoughts scattered.

His body moved against mine, and then my shirt was gone and I could feel every inch of his skin against my own. I couldn't stop from moaning as his lips slid against my jawline. That's when I realized something was different; different from when the woman at the club had done the same thing, because I couldn't control myself now. I wanted to believe it was the drugs which were making his touch almost unbearable, but I knew it wasn't. It was Dean.

Hands were at my belt now, tearing the material of my jeans loose and pulling them down to my knees. I didn't know if they were my own hands or Dean's, but I really didn't care. Soft lips were tracing a path down my body, and each caress was like a smouldering ember. Heat spread through my body and my breathing quickened.

Dean's mouth had reached my boxer line, his fingers beginning to pull the flimsy material away from my body. But then the fear was back, and this time it was stronger than before. The bubble wrap surrounding my brain was beginning to pop, and I suddenly realized the true extent of what was happening. "Wait," I breathed, panic unexpectedly rising in me as I stopped his hands. "I don't... I..." I fumbled over my words, but whether it was because of the drugs and alcohol or my own nervousness, I didn't know.

Dean raised his head and stared at me with heavy eyes. He immediately sensed my change of mood, his expression transforming as realization donned on him. "This is your first time," he stated rather than asked. "Have you at least... I mean... with a girl? Other than that chick at the club?"

I felt embarrassment replace panic and was suddenly thankful for the darkness. Otherwise, Dean may have noticed that my cheeks were burning bright red. But I didn't need to say anything for Dean to understand. "You're a complete virgin?" he enquired, his eyes widening.

"I'm only seventeen," I quickly said, feeling like I needed to defend myself. "It's not that out of the ordinary."

"Woah, wait." Dean straightened up on the bed. "Seventeen? Isn't that too young for me to... you know?"

"You don't even know how old you are," I protested, propping myself up on my elbows.

"Maybe not, but I'm pretty damn sure I'm older than you, kid."

Now annoyance was the predominant emotion I felt. "Don't call me kid."

"Why? That's what you are. You're fucking _seventeen_."

"I'll be eighteen next month, if that makes you feel better," I mumbled, but I already knew the moment had passed. This wasn't going to happen, and I couldn't tell if I was disappointed or happy about it. Maybe a mixture of both.

Dean scoffed. "Next month? I gotta wait till you're legal now?"

"You're the one who's making a big deal out of this."

"Well sorry if I don't want to go to jail, Sam."

"Whatever," I said as I sat up, pushing him to the side, and pulled my jeans back up. The effects of the drug and alcohol were beginning to wear off and I was feeling dizzy. The bed spun around me as I fumbled in the dark for my shirt.

"Shit. You're wasted," Dean said, pointing out the obvious.

"So are you," I barked back, finally finding my shirt strewn across the headboard. As I pulled it over my head I heard Dean let out a sigh.

"That's not what I meant, Sam. I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have taken advantage. This is my fault. I'm sorry."

The apology infuriated me even more and I quickly scurried off the bed, almost losing my footing as the floor tilted beneath me. Somehow I made my way to the door, but before I opened it I spun around. "How do you know you're not a virgin too, huh?"

Dean looked at me from atop the bed with a peculiar expression. "Because I'm not."

"How do you _know_?" I pressed, trying hard to focus as a feeling of nausea swept through my body. "You can't remember anything."

"Maybe not, but I know I'm not a virgin."

"_How_?" I asked again, anger propelling me on.

Dean paused for a moment before replying, "Because I'm confident that I can keep you up all night long if given the chance. That kind of confidence doesn't belong to a virgin."

I was silent. I honestly didn't know how to respond to that kind of conviction. Dean certainly didn't seem like a virgin. Besides, he was clearly older than me. Probably by three years at least. He must have a lot more experience when it came to this type of stuff, and that realization made me even more embarrassed. "I've got to go," I said lamely. As I placed my hand on the doorknob Dean called after me.

"Sam, where are you going to go? It's 3 o'clock in the morning and you're still high."

"I'm sober now," I lied. The truth was, the room was still spinning around me, and I had the suspicion that it was only getting faster.

"Liar," Dean said. "You can take the bed, all right? I've got somewhere to be anyway."

I weighed my options, the ability to reason having somewhat returned to me. I could either stalk out of here with no plan and end up getting lost, mugged, or worse, or I could sleep here and pray I didn't wake up with too bad of a hangover. Option two was looking like the lesser of two evils at the moment.

"Where are you going?" I asked as I turned around, letting my hand drop from the doorknob. "Back to the club and your blonde friend? I bet she's legal."

"Sam, we both would have regretted it in the morning," Dean announced, ignoring the bitter tone in my voice. "You're well beyond intoxicated, and I'm not exactly in the greatest shape here either."

"Whatever," I mumbled, shuffling my feet on the floor. He was right. What the fuck were we doing? My mind was a mess right now, and although I realized that, it didn't make it any tidier.

He sighed. "Go to bed, Sam. I'll see you in a few days."

I shrugged, suddenly too tired to argue. I felt like I was going to throw up if I didn't lie down soon. As Dean stood up and slipped his shirt back on, I allowed myself to flop on the bed. I didn't say good bye and he didn't offer any words up himself, but as I finally allowed drunken sleep to overtake me I swore he pulled a blanket over me.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

/

"_It comes and goes in waves. I am only led to wonder why."_

- _Comes and Goes_, Greg Laswell

For three days I didn't see Dean. I spent that time mainly at the shelter hanging around with Jo and Ash, secretly wondering how to approach the situation I was in. Not my situation with Dean, of course. To be honest, I had more pressing issues to confront, though it still irked me to think about what had happened between us.

What was on the forefront of my mind was my mother's murder. I couldn't turn to the police because all the evidence pointed towards suicide. All I had was a son's conviction that his mother hadn't killed herself, and last time I checked that wasn't enough to warrant an investigation. But I knew I couldn't just let John get away with this. Even though I was thinking relatively clearly again, I had begun to have some insane thoughts. I had begun to understand that the police were useless because my stepfather was obviously a powerful man. And I had begun to believe that I was the only one who would be able to gain justice for my mom. I would have to be the one to confront John.

The only problem was, my stepfather wanted me dead and he had many means to get the job done. Right now I was safe. John probably thought I had been killed and, from what I could recall, I had never told him about the shelter. I doubted he would ever think to look for me here even if he suspected I was still breathing. But I couldn't stay here forever, and if John believed I wasn't dead then he'd probably make it official soon.

I chased these thoughts in circles as I listened to Jo complain about her last trick and Ash type away on his new laptop. We were sitting in the rec room, taking up one of the couches in the corner as a group of fifteen-year-olds played pool; three guys and a girl. It was obvious the boys were trying to impress the girl with their pool skills, but she seemed uninterested. She kept looking my way and I smirked a little as the boys began to notice, sending their own glances my way, only a lot less friendly.

"Then he kept making this stupid noise and I swear he was about to have a heart attack," Jo said as she leaned against the arm of the couch, her legs draped across my lap. She was filing her nails to nubs. "Honestly, I'm never turning a trick older than fifty again. I don't even know _what_ I'd do if he died right there. I mean, could you imagine if we were still in the act and then he suddenly-"

"Jo!" I held up my hands to stop her from finishing that sentence. "Can you please not talk about your clients while I'm around? I really don't want to hear it."

She scoffed. "Well _sorry_, Mr. Prude. I thought you'd enjoy my stories since you never get any action yourself."

I was about to tell her off when Ash chuckled over his laptop. "Sam isn't as innocent as he used to be." I turned to look at the man as Jo asked what he was talking about. "I saw you sneaking off with that young lady in the club the other day, Sam. You went to the back room, didn't you?"

"So _that's_ why you didn't come back until morning," Jo giggled. "I take back what I said, then. Congratulations, Sam!" I felt my face flush red as she patted me on the shoulder.

"We didn't do it," I mumbled.

Jo's lips pursed. "Then where were you all night? You meet another pretty girl?"

"No," I said, growing irritated. "If you have to know, that woman led me on a bad trip and Dean dropped me off at a motel to recover. I was passed out most of the night." Of course I skipped the part involving Dean and me together.

Jo and Ash both burst out into laughter. "That's the Sam I know," Ash said, shaking his head. "Still so innocent."

I crossed my arms against my chest and scowled. "Whatever," I said, but I wasn't really that upset. Maybe I would have been if there weren't heavier problems pressing in on me.

"Where's Dean, anyway? I haven't seen him since the club," Jo said, her attention back on her nails. "I miss looking at his butt."

I rolled my eyes. "Said he'd be gone a few days. That he needed to take care of something."

"What's he need to take care of when he can't remember anything?" Jo questioned, but I didn't know the answer. She sighed as she got up and exited the room, claiming she had to use the washroom.

"He went to see Vince," Ash said suddenly, his eyes glued to his computer screen. I whipped my head around.

"What the fuck do you mean 'he went to see Vince'"? I demanded. "I thought you didn't know where he was."

"Well, I found out," Ash said, closing his laptop shut and turning his full attention to me. He tapped his head with a finger, smiling impishly. "I can find out anything."

"And you told Dean where Vince is?"

He shrugged. "The man wanted to know."

I rubbed my face with my hands before running my fingers through my hair. I didn't understand why this news bothered me so much. Maybe it was because I knew Dean was a guy with amnesia stumbling around in the dark and Vince was a monster who liked to hide in the shadows. "Where'd you tell him Vince was?" I asked.

"Found out he likes to spend his weekends at a place called 'Betsy's' on the east side. I was told he'd be there today. Dean wanted to go early to see if he could stake out the place and learn a bit before he talked to Vince." Ash leaned back in the couch. "Judging by their last meeting, I don't think Dean's going to be well received."

I looked at Ash like he was the idiot he never could be. "No shit. He's probably gonna end up dead. Why'd you let him go?"

Ash shrugged again. "The man can obviously handle himself. You should have seen what he did to Vince last time he was here." He laughed, but I didn't share in his amusement.

"That's what worries me," I grumbled.

"He'll be fine," Ash reassured me. "Probably."

But that 'probably' was not enough. I realized then that I felt a bit of responsibility towards Dean. I didn't know when I had started feeling liable for the guy, but I did. Maybe it was because he had saved my life, or maybe it was because I was one of the only people he knew. After all, I was the one who had found him by the lake, half naked and surviving on _fish, _for christ's sake. I was the one who had brought him here and introduced him to Ash, who had told him about Vince. Therefore, if you connected all the dots, _I_ would be the one responsible for getting him killed.

I shook my head, releasing myself from my train of thought. I wasn't responsible for _shit_. I hadn't asked to be saved. I hadn't even wanted Dean to follow me to New York or to the shelter. It wasn't my problem that he had kicked Vince's ass and was now paying a visit to him, like a complete fool. I could care less about what happened to Dean.

But that wasn't true, was it? I became increasingly more aware of that as I spent the rest of the afternoon worrying about whether Dean was going to end up dead or not. Ash had told me Vince was due at Betsy's around seven o'clock every Friday. I glanced at my watch as I sat on the edge of my bed. It was six o'clock now. I wondered if I had enough time to go to Betsy's and try to intercept Dean before he made the confrontation.

I quickly threw on my jacket and exited the room. I didn't have enough money to rent a taxi. In fact, I had hardly any money at all, aside from a bit of change Ash had leant me the other day. It was barely enough for a two-way subway ticket, but it would have to do. As I walked to the nearest station I prayed that I'd get to Betsy's on time.

It was on the subway where I realized that it was my birthday today. May 2nd. Eighteen-years-old. I was finally legal.

/

Betsy's was a small little bar stacked between an adult movie store and a burger joint in a shady neighbourhood on the east side of New York City. It was nothing special to look at, but it seemed to me as good a place as any for a drug dealer to do business. Its front windows were blacked out, a cartoon picture of a blonde woman in a red dress lying across the words 'Betsy's Bar' scrawled across them in fluorescent wires. I sighed as I looked around. No Dean.

I couldn't go inside the bar because I wasn't old enough. I could legally star in a porn movie but I wasn't old enough to have a glass of beer... _Welcome to the United States of America_, I thought bitterly. I decided that I'd wait in the burger joint. Its windows were large and clear, and I could easily watch the entrance of Betsy's from one of the tables inside. It was ten to seven.

Twenty minutes passed and still no sign of Dean or Vince. I began to worry that I had come too late and the two men were already inside. Or maybe Dean had entered the bar before I arrived and was waiting in one of the booths, sipping a beer as he watched the front door for Vince's arrival, just like I was watching from the burger joint.

By the time it was 7:30 I decided I'd take a quick look in Betsy's. Maybe I'd get lucky and there'd be no one at the front checking for I.D.'s, since it was still pretty early for the usual Friday crowd of bar hoppers to be out and about. The sun was already setting as I entered the dingy space, immediately skimming the room with my eyes for Dean. The place was practically empty, only a middle-aged woman behind the counter serving a single customer at the bar and a couple of old dudes crammed in a booth in the back, laughing as they puffed on cigars. I sighed and was about to leave when I heard the bartender call me. "Hey kid," she said in an obnoxious New York accent. "You old enough to be in here?"

"I was just leaving," I said, making sure I was smiling politely even though my gut was twisting itself into knots. Where was Dean? That's when I realized I should have left without saying a word, because Vince was emerging from a doorway at the back of the room and his attention was suddenly set on me.

"We got another one, Betsy?" he joked as he walked over. He looked just as I remembered him: rat-like face, shaved head, baggy clothes draped over a body that looked a bit scraggly but I knew could do serious damage to a face. "Sorry kid," he said as he lit the cigarette sticking out of his mouth and breathed in a lungful. "If it was up to me I'd abolish the whole idea of a drinking age." He blew the smoke from his nose. "Goddamn government."

Betsy laughed from behind the bar and I realized that she was supposed to be the lady portrayed on the front window, though I bet she wouldn't look as good in that red dress anymore. Her blonde hair had probably once shined, but now it looked like the colour of piss.

"That's all right," I mumbled, just wanting to get out of here. I didn't want Vince to recognize me from the shelter, though I doubted that he would. I had always steered clear of him whenever he'd visited. "I was just looking for someone, but he's not here."

Vince looked at me curiously. "What's your name, kid?"

I paused, feeling uncomfortable, like maybe I was supposed to use a fake identity or something. But the way Vince was looking at me, combined with the stories I'd heard about him and the things I'd witnessed myself, made me quickly stammer my real name. I had never been much of a liar anyway.

"Sam?" he asked, like he recognized the name. Then he grinned, his bald head gleaming in the bar's lighting. He placed a hand on his hip as he took another drag at his cigarette and I saw a flash of metal sticking out of his pants as his sweater pulled back. My heartbeat quickened as I recognized it as a gun. "Hey Leo," he called over his shoulder to the man sitting at the bar. "This is Sammy."

I physically flinched at the sound of my nickname. My mom had always called me 'Sammy', and my stomach lurched as a sick feeling filled it.

Vince's buddy came over, looking me up and down. He was a large man with dark skin. His head was shaved bald too and a number of earrings studded his left ear. "Sammy, huh?" The guy's voice was like a low rumble that emanated from his chest and around the room. "What a coincidence. I think I know a Sam."

"Me too," Vince piped up, barely containing his laughter. I wanted to know what was so damn funny but I kept my mouth shut. My instincts were screaming at me to keep quiet; to tread carefully. I cursed myself for having gotten myself into this situation.

"Look, I thought someone I knew would be here but he isn't, so I'll just leave, okay?" I explained again. "I wasn't planning on drinking underage or anything. I know that can get a place shut down."

The two men began to laugh loudly. "He's underage," Leo said like he was speaking about a cute baby. "Poor kid."

"I'm not a kid," I growled, but I immediately regretted it.

Vince pinned me with a hard glare. "Then how old are you, _kid_?" he asked, his lip curling into a sneer.

I had to swallow before I answered him. "Eighteen."

"Well he's legal after all," Leo said in a low voice, his eyes dragging over my body. I clenched my teeth as he said, "Not that it matters."

I had the sudden thought that I should bolt to the door. That I should just _run_, but I was too afraid that before I made it Vince would have his gun out and pointed at my back. So I let him put his arm around me as he led me into the bar, Leo following.

"You see, Sammy, I think we have a mutual friend." Vince's tone was back to friendly as we walked down the back hall, passing the seedy washrooms. "That makes _us_ friends, doesn't it?"

At first I thought it was a rhetorical question, but then I realized he wanted me to answer him. "I guess," I managed to say as we stopped in front of the back door, the red 'EXIT' sign casting Vince's face in red light. I wondered who this 'mutual friend' was.

"Dean mentioned you," he said, as if he had guessed what I was thinking. "Said you two were very close."

So Dean _had_ been here, but what had happened? Vince didn't look like he had been beaten up again. I thought of the gun and could feel the rest of the blood in my face drain. But Vince had looked a bit irked when he had mentioned Dean's name. It wasn't much, but it made me feel slightly better.

Then I began to wonder why Dean had mentioned me. I couldn't connect the dots; couldn't understand why Vince seemed interested. He smiled again as he saw the confusion on my face, his teeth stained red in the light. They looked like they were covered in blood, and I couldn't resist the urge to run now. I was about to make a break for the exit door when I felt a hand cover my mouth and a forearm squeeze against my throat. Before I could process what was happening, Vince had pushed open the back door and I was being dragged outside by Leo.

The man threw me against one of the large dumpsters in the alley, my ribs smacking against the edge and the wind knocked from by chest. I tried to suck in air but pain burned through my chest and suddenly there was someone behind me, pushing me harder against the green container. I tried to shout but found I couldn't with my lungs void of air.

As I struggled to breath, shoving back against the man, I felt hands at my waist. They were fumbling with my zipper, and a new fear clenched me as I realized what was about to happen. For a moment I couldn't move and the man behind me shifted back a bit, like he thought I was giving in, accepting it. But as soon as I felt air inflate my lungs I was filled with adrenaline, and I struck out behind me with all the power I had. I wasn't incredibly strong to begin with and the position I was in gave me no advantage, so my attack was fruitless. I did manage to clip the guy in the face with my elbow, though, and as he cried out I knew it was Vince behind me.

"Little fucker," he growled, and then he was slamming my head down onto the dumpster's lid. The lower half of my face collided with the metal but I ignored the pain as I tried to push off from the dumpster.

"Help me out here, Leo," I heard Vince snap, and in mere seconds a gun was shoved in my face. Leo stood to my side, the glock looking comfortable in his hand as he pointed it directly between my eyes. I stared down the barrel for a moment, suddenly recalling the last time I had faced the same sight, up on the train. It felt almost the same to me, except this time a stranger was holding the weapon. I didn't really know if that made things better or worse.

"Now Sam, you behave and Leo won't blow your brains out, you got it?" I felt myself nod as I bowed my head and returned my gaze to the top of the dumpster lid. I could breathe now, but it was like my body had stopped functioning. It refused to take in oxygen, causing my head to swim.

I felt my pants drop to my ankles, followed by my boxers. The chilly night air brushed against my legs and I shivered as I listened to Vince's belt being undone; then the sound of his zipper and the rustling of his clothes. In the fading light I looked at my hands planted palms down on the dumpster lid. I didn't dare look to my left, and I knew the entrance to the alleyway was too far to the right for anyone to notice what was going on inside. Not that anyone would have helped me if they did. All I could do was choose where to stare: my hands, the dumpster, the brick wall in front of me, or the darkness of my eyelids.

I chose the brick wall.

Those few moments were the worst of my life. I wanted to scream, but the sound was lodged in my throat. Instead I had to listen to Vince's heavy breathing next to my ear and smell the cigarette smoke wafting off of him. I felt like throwing up. I felt like dying.

Then it was over. I didn't know how long it had lasted; just that it had felt like hours to me. They left me in the alley with my pants down and for a moment I didn't want to pull them back up. I didn't want them to be stained with the blood running down my legs. They were my favourite pair, the one my mom had patched a hole in the knee of last summer.

It hurt to walk, to move, but I made my way down the alley somehow, walking funny. Vince and his friend had disappeared back into the building. A light drizzle began to cover me as I turned onto the street. Everything was painted in shades of grey, like I had lost the ability to see colour. I thought about calling a taxi but then I remembered I had no money. And I honestly didn't know if I could sit down right now, not with the conditions of New York's roads being what they were.

It's funny, because as I wandered the streets I kept thinking about my shoelaces, like that time I had been high and had wondered if they felt pain. I recalled the day, a couple of months ago, when I had bought my shoes and worn them for the first time. The laces had been white and strong then, their plastic tips keeping the threads in place. They were nothing like that now. I had never bothered to tie them, and since then they had become dirty and frayed at the ends.

Fuck. Why couldn't I get them out of my head? Why did I keep picturing how they used to be? All clean and white and neat. Before they had been dragged through the mud and trampled on and whipped about. Before they had belonged to me.

I realized I was standing still in the middle of the sidewalk. I'd been staring at my shoelaces the entire time, but now I glanced up to see where I was. For the past ten minutes I had been wandering aimlessly, not really sure where to go. My hair was damp from the rain and I realized I had no clue where I was. There was a small bakery to my left. I could see platters of colourful cupcakes and éclairs piled in the window. A lady with a shopping bag walked past me, followed by a middle-aged guy in a cheap suit. The woman gave me a strange look over her shoulder.

I began to move forward again, trying my best to walk properly. It was another ten minutes before I recognized one of the street names. Then it was a ten minute walk to the nearest subway station. I rode it standing all the way back to the shelter. There was only one thought in my head as I climbed the large oak stairs to the second floor, thankful that the building seemed to be emptier than usual today: I needed a shower. That's all I could think as I walked down one of the hallways, my hand slightly skimming the yellowing wall.

"Sam?"

I stopped in my tracks. Then my mind was sent into a panic.

_Fuck! Not now. Please not now. Please let me take a shower before I see you. Please let me feel clean again. I need to feel _clean_. _

I heard the voice call my name behind me a second time but I refused to turn around and face it. I started forward again, not caring that I was walking funny. Not caring that blood had dripped all the way down to my ankles and was probably leaving a bloody trail behind me. All I wanted was soap and water. And a drain. A drain to wash all this filth away.

"Sam, hold on a second." The voice was angry now. I jumped as a hand grabbed my shoulder and tried to spin me around. God no. He couldn't see me like this, but I let my body turn. As my back halted against the wall I kept my face to the side. I couldn't look Dean in the eyes.

"Hey, listen. If you're acting weird because of the other night, just forget it, okay?" he said. "What happened, happened. I have bigger news. I found Vince. He told me a few things and I think-"

"I don't care," I whispered, shutting my eyes. It was the truth. I didn't care what Vince had said. I didn't care if Dean remembered. I didn't care about any of it.

"You don't care," Dean repeated, but not as a question. He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet. "Sam, I'm sorry, all right? I took advantage when you were-"

I turned my head, the cold anger I suddenly felt allowing me to meet his eyes. After all, this was his fault. If he hadn't gone to see Vince by himself I never would have followed. If he hadn't saved my life I never would have cared if he got hurt or not. If I hadn't met him I wouldn't be standing here, wrestling with my brain, trying to tell it that those hands were not still on me. That no fingers were gripping my hair or digging into my hips or pinning my wrists. That nothing was inside of me, violating. Violating everything.

"We're done," I said, my voice strangely calm and level. I could tell he was confused, so I clarified. "I helped you get to New York. I helped you find your name. I helped you find Vince." I swallowed, unable to believe that I had been able to utter that name aloud. "I think I've helped you enough."

Dean stared at me for a moment. "Sam," he said, looking me straight in the eyes. "Are you all right?"

I returned his gaze and lied. "I'm fine."

His head tilted as he gave me a one-over, as if he was making sure I was telling the truth. "You're bleeding," he said as he met my eyes again.

My heartbeat quickened. Did he know? Would I have to suffer through more humiliation? I clenched my teeth, ready to refute anything he thought he knew. But then he said, "Your lip. It's bleeding."

I raised a hand to my lip, feeling hardened blood where it must have busted open when it had collided with the dumpster. "Bit my lip," I told him.

"Is it cold outside?" he asked me, and I wondered why he was suddenly curious about the weather. Was he leaving again? "Your hand is shaking."

I looked down at the hand I had raised. He wasn't lying. Quickly dropping it again, I hardened the expression on my face. "I've got to go," I said, saying nothing more. After all, we weren't friends. I had paid back my debt to him. I didn't owe him any explanations.

He nodded his head, still staring. Then he backed away and gave me a little smirk, though I could tell it was more out of habit than anything else. "Maybe I'll see you around, Sammy."

I watched him walk down the hall, and as he vanished around the corner I felt myself relax, my body slumping against the wall. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding as I closed my eyes and let my head drop to my chest. I was relieved he was gone but the anger I had felt earlier had now disappeared and I didn't quite know what replaced it. I knew I might feel regret later on for having said what I had said to him, but right now all I wanted was a shower.

As I opened my eyes my sight fell on my shoelaces a second time today. They were lying limply on the wood panelled floor, and I found, once again, that I couldn't lift my eyes from them. But it wasn't because they were frayed and torn and I regretted not taking better care of them. It's because now I realized something I hadn't before: they were red. Splattered red with my blood, and I knew that Dean couldn't have missed them.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

/

_"First night of your life, curled up on your own. __Looking at you now, you would never know"_

- _Wires_, Athlete

/

Round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round.

I felt like I was going to be sick, but Jo's grin was so wide that I couldn't refuse as she grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the back of the line again. "Just one more time," she promised me, though that's what she had said before.

There was barely anyone standing in line so we made it on the ride immediately. As Jo skittered about and chose a random swing I sat down on the one next to her. I winced a little. The physical pain was bearable now but the memories it caused to flash in my mind were difficult to endure. I gripped the swing's chains tightly as I willed my brain to return to the moment. It had been five days but I was still struggling to keep it together. I wondered how long I was going to feel this way; when I'd be able to walk down an alleyway again.

The ride began and I was glad when I felt my lunch rise and had to focus all my attention on keeping it down. For three minutes I swung through the air in a wide circle, looking down at my feet as I tried not to throw up. I'd left my shoes on the pavement. They were a pair Ash had leant me, a size too big, but they still had laces. I was glad I didn't have to stare at them.

When the ride finally came to an end, I stumbled out of the swing and slipped on my shoes, joining Jo as we exited the gate with the rest of those who had waited in line, most of whom were kids that barely reached past my belt. She must have noticed that my face was green because she didn't suggest we ride the swings again. Instead she led me by the hand to a booth that sold cotton candy. I bought her some and we sat on a bench, watching as a never-ending stream of people strolled by. I mainly saw families with small children but also a few teenagers who looked grumpy about being dragged here by their parents, one or two older couples, and the random group of friends laughing obnoxiously as they took up the entire pathway. Jo offered me some cotton candy but I shook my head. Nowadays, everything I ate seemed to have no taste at all.

"So how's Midnight"? she asked me before stuffing a huge tuft of pink fluff into her mouth.

'Midnight' was the place where Ash earned money working as a bartender and where he'd helped me get a job. It was a classy looking bar with a lounge. To be honest, before I experienced my first day of work two days ago I was surprised that they allowed Ash to work there with his mullet and all, but I soon discovered that it wasn't a place that conformed much to society's social rules. Midnight was always full of strange characters; those who had money but also had peculiar tastes, like a lawyer who enjoyed pretending he was a vampire at night, or a police official's wife who had a thing for Lolita fashion. I'd never really cared for that kind of stuff, but to each his own I supposed.

"Not bad, I guess," I answered as I watched a woman manoeuvre a baby stroller around a garbage can. "At least soon I'll be able to stop borrowing clothes from Ash, because I swear they all smell like they've been washed in a tub full of beer."

Jo sniggered. "He _is_ a bartender, Sam. You'll probably end up smelling like that soon yourself."

"Nah, I'll smell worse. Like toilets. That's all I do there. Clean the toilets." I wished the truth was different. I was on cleaning duty, which meant I got to look forward to all the lovely presents people left me in the washrooms. But I wasn't about to complain because they paid me in cash every night. I hadn't even had to submit a résumé. It was a great set up when you needed to stay below the radar.

"Can we go on the merry-go-round next?" Jo asked excitedly. It was like the girl had never been to a fair before, but then again, maybe she hadn't.

I nodded my head, my voice not exactly excited as I said, "Sure, Jo." Another spinning ride, but at least I wasn't responsible for cleaning the washrooms _here_.

"Sorry," she mumbled, frowning as she noticed my lack of enthusiasm. "This is supposed to be your day. You should get to pick the ride, but instead I'm dragging you around and getting you to buy me cotton candy."

I put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a small hug, feeling bad for not acting happier but not having it in me to put on a fake smile. "Don't worry about it. I don't mind. To be honest, this is probably one of the best birthdays I've ever had."

"Yeah right," she snorted. "It's not even your birthday today. I can't believe I forgot it." She huffed as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Some friend I am."

I chuckled. "I almost forgot it myself. Don't be too hard on yourself."

"But you were so bummed out that day. I could tell," she claimed, looking down at the cotton candy she held, the pink and blue tufts stirring in the breeze. "I should have realized when you spent most of the night on the roof. You were sulking because we forgot your birthday and I didn't even realize until five days later!"

I gave her shoulder another squeeze to let her know I forgave her. I wanted to tell her that I hadn't been upset for the reasons she was claiming but I knew that would only lead to her questioning me until I told her the real cause. I couldn't do that, so I had to let her beat herself up over it some more. The truth was, spending time at the fair with her today was the perfect gift. It was something _normal_, which seemed to be lacking from my life lately. It felt good just to have her next to me. She was so frail and soft. Harmless. A pretty girl who smelled like cherries. Always cherries, because she used cherry shampoo and cherry conditioner. Cherry chapstick too.

A memory of Dean unexpectedly flashed in my head. I remembered tasting cherries on his lips after Jo had lent him her chapstick. I could feel his hands on my abdomen, sliding upwards. I could hear his breathing... But then the memory was swirling, overlapping with another. I was back in the alley, and as soon as I envisioned that brick wall in my mind, I was shutting it down. Shutting my brain down and standing up from the bench.

"Let's go," I said as I reached down for Jo's hand. She took it, her hand swamped by my own, and then we were walking through the crowd to the merry-go-round. We rode it three times in a row, Jo acting just like the little girls that squealed in glee as they sat on fake ponies next to their parents. It was enough to make me smile and I spent the next two hours in a lighter mood. I was surprised when I actually enjoyed myself a little. I didn't know it was still possible to feel something like that.

When we got back to the shelter it was already dark and nearing twelve o'clock. Ash was at Midnight and I was due to be there soon. I walked Jo to her room, not having liked the look of the rowdy boys downstairs in the rec room. "I wish I could have gotten you a present," she announced as she stood in the doorway. The regret was clear in her voice and her honesty was almost enough to break me.

God, had she always been so child-like? I had seen Jo throw a punch or two and I'd heard her swear like a sailor, but right now she was the image of purity and innocence. I knew she was far from that in the sexual sense but her smile was so genuine, like it could never be broken, no matter what life threw at her. I wanted to feel like that. I would do anything to have just a little bit of what emanated from her right now.

I reached up and touched her hair, my fingers easily sliding amongst the blonde strands. "You still can," I said, and then I was kissing her. Just a soft touch on the lips. Innocent. The scent of cherries was strong and I breathed it in as I drew away. But I didn't feel any different. I didn't feel stronger or happier or cleaner.

"I wish you'd stop," I said quietly, my forehead resting against hers.

"Stop what?" I heard her enquire after a pause. I pulled my head back. Her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted, and I could tell she was confused.

I smiled softly. "Giving your body away," I replied. "I wish you'd stop." A crease appeared between her eyes and she pressed her lips together tightly. I reached my other hand up and cupped her face. "You're my best friend, you know that?" Her expression softened again. "I just don't want you to get hurt." Then I dropped my hands and took a step back. She was looking at me with a strange expression: concern mingled with surprise mixed with gratitude.

"Good night, Jo," I said. "Thank you for the birthday present." I left after she shut her door and locked it, walking down the hall to an empty room. After I had closed the door I sat on the edge of the bed and rested my elbows on my knees, holding my face in my hands.

Why was the world so fucked up? Why did Jo have to sell her body practically every night just to keep on living? Why wasn't she being doted on by loving parents, being crowned prom queen at some cliché high school in Alabama?

Why was Ash wasting his skills working at a bar where he served alcohol all night? Why wasn't he still in MIT or making loads of cash with some government position in Washington?

Why was my mom dead? Why wasn't I doing anything to get revenge on the man I suspected had killed her?

Why was I here? Not even able to go to the clinic. Barely able to sleep because I didn't know if it was safe. Safe from trains and back rooms and guns and alleyways. Safe from _people_.

Sometimes I caught myself wishing I was in Dean's position, unable to remember anything. What a gift that would be. What a blessing. But then I'd start thinking about Dean and I'd have to stop. I didn't like to think about Dean, because when I did I thought of other things. Things I'd like to forget.

/

Midnight was busier than usual, or at least busier than the last two times I had been there. Today was my third shift and as I knelt by a toilet in the men's washroom, trying to mop up the puke on the floor, I wondered why people couldn't aim better.

There was a loud bang and suddenly voices were filling the washroom. "You wanna say that again?" someone shouted, their words noticeably slurred. There was a grunt and the shuffle of feet.

"Fuck you guys!" a man retorted, fear lacing his voice. I got to my feet, exiting the stall and looking at the scene playing out near the sinks. Three guys dressed in black tuxedoes were surrounding a young man who had his back against the counter. It was clear that the three were older and larger than the one.

"You think you can speak like that to my boys and get away with it?" the man in the middle asked, shoving the younger man. He winced as his lower back dug into the counter, placing a hand on the counter to support himself. One of the three men seemed to notice they had company in the room and looked over at me, nudging his friend to alert him. I stared at four sets of eyes, three of which were very unwelcoming.

"You got a problem?" The middle man growled. I stood there for a moment, wondering what I should do. Did I have a problem? I had many problems, but none that involved these guys. I shook my head slowly. The younger man seemed to be pleading with me, his eyes big and round. He wanted me to step in, to help him, but I couldn't do that. So I simply walked by and left the washroom, leaving the mess in the stall and the man to face his fate.

I was in a bit of a daze as I walked into the main room and over to the bar. I passed a number of peculiar looking people, including a man and woman donning a wardrobe made entirely out of metal and leather, complete with collars. Every booth in the lounge seemed occupied but the bar itself was fairly empty at the moment. I sat down on a stool and rubbed the back of my neck.

"Think you can slip me a drink?" I asked Ash.

He flung a dishtowel over his shoulder as he glanced at me. "First of all, you're underage. Second, you're not allowed to drink on the job."

I glowered at him. "I see you drink all the time."

He smiled mischievously. "I can hold my liquor, unlike some people."

Shaking my head and sighing in irritation, I spun around on the stool and stared out at the lounge. It consisted of a number of circular booths lined with purple cushions. They were very private spaces, lit only by singular bulbs that hung above the tables. The dim, blue lighting made it difficult to see faces clearly, but it didn't stop me from noticing _her_.

"Shit," I cursed, immediately ducking my head and swinging back around. I hunched my shoulders as I hurriedly pulled the hood of my grey sweater over my head.

"What's the matter?" Ash inquired. I glanced up and saw that he was looking at me strangely, which was kind of funny since I was probably the only normal looking person here. Before answering I peeked over my shoulder, making sure it was really her I had seen.

Son of a bitch. What were the chances?

"Meg Masters," I whispered to Ash, like I was afraid she would hear me across the room and over the eerie music playing from the speakers.

"Should I recognize the name?" Ash asked me, looking out at the lounge as if he would see someone he knew.

"No, she's just someone who works for my stepfather," I explained, wondering how I was going to exit the building without risking her seeing me. "His _secretary_ of sorts." At least, that's what John had referred to her as; his secretary, though I knew he was sleeping with her. Had been for more than three years. I despised the bitch, because every time she had come over to the house on "business" she had treated my mom like a servant, and John had allowed it.

"Let me guess," Ash drawled. "Hot blonde wearing a little black dress and fish stockings standing by the second booth to the right?"

"How the hell did you know that?"

He looked over the bar at me, tapping his head with a finger like he always did when he showed his cleverness. "Never underestimate my powers of observation, Sam."

I scoffed. "You gonna help cover for me or what?"

"Now why would I do that? Don't tell me you have bad history with her."

I shook my head in impatience. "I just don't want her to know I'm here. She'll recognize me." Which might mean she'd report back to John straight away and I'd be dead within an hour. "Fuck, what's she doing here?" I swore under my breath.

"I'll tell the boss lady you went home sick," Ash told me. "But you better hurry and get out of here. The secretary is coming over."

"What?" I hissed, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder again and confirm Ash's report. "How close is she?"

"About seven feet. If you go to your left right now I think you can bypass her."

I immediately did as he suggested, making sure my face was covered by my hood as I skimmed the wall and skirted the blonde. I pushed past the nearest doors and slipped from the main room, trying to catch my breath. I was in the front entrance: a long, dark hallway lit only by faint purple lights lining the walls. After inhaling deeply I opened the swinging door again, trying to catch a glimpse of Meg at the bar. She was speaking with Ash, her elbows on the bar top, leaning forward and smiling. Her short blonde hair hid her eyes from view, but it was definitely her.

"Excuse me," a voice said and I spun around. A large woman dressed in some sort of black robe was trying to enter the lounge. I mumbled an apology and stepped out of the way. Then I walked down the hall and out onto the street. I had no trouble hailing down a taxi, the yellow vehicles never absent from any street no matter how deserted, and got into it. But as I went to close the door a leg slipped in and stopped me from shutting it. The limb was slender and pale and clad in black fishnet stockings. I looked up and my heart skipped a beat when I saw Meg leering down at me. "Sam," she said, as if greeting an old friend. "I _thought_ it was you I saw."

"I taking both of you?" the cab driver asked, clearly impatient to leave. I couldn't answer him because I was still trying to compute the fact that Meg had recognized me. My hand was clasping the car door but her leg was still in the way. I thought of pushing her back so I could close the door and drive off, but what good would that do me? She'd still report back to John and he'd find me eventually.

"No, I'm sorry," Meg called to the driver as she leaned into the cab and grabbed my wrist. "We don't need a taxi."

But then she was suddenly being pushed into the car and I had to shuffle to the other side of the back seat as a third person entered. "Actually, you can drive us to 132 Frontenac street," a gruff voice said as I heard the taxi door slam shut. I looked over Meg, who was making a fuss in the middle, and saw Dean dressed in a black jacket and jeans. "And I'll make it worth your while if you step on it."

"Sure thing," the cab driver responded in a happier voice. Then we were speeding down the street and I barely stopped myself from holding onto something for dear life.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII**

/

"_And I don't know where to look. My words just break and melt._"

- _Make This Go On Forever_, Snow Patrol

/

"What the fuck is this?" Meg screamed from beside me as she glared at Dean. She was trying to pull down the hem of her black dress which had ridden up her legs when Dean had shoved her into the back seat of the cab.

He smiled at her, though it was obviously fuelled my derision. "Helping out a friend," was all he said.

"Pull this cab over _right now_!" she yelled at the cab driver. The middle aged man glanced nervously at her in the rear view mirror.

"Don't mind her," Dean exclaimed. "My girlfriend and I just had a bit of an argument and she's overreacting."

"T'hell I am!" she screamed as she clawed at Dean's face. He caught her wrists and held them with one hand as she tried to struggle free, practically head butting me in the face as she squirmed around.

"Now, now, honey," Dean grunted as she kicked him in the shin with her high heel. "I'm sorry I was looking at the waitress' butt, but how many times-" He reached around him and drew something from behind his back. "-do I have to apologize?"

Meg went still as the taxi paused at a red light and I wondered why she was suddenly docile. I looked around her to see what Dean held, and when I saw the gun in his hand, pointed at her stomach, I felt my blood run cold. I swear it looked just like the ones Leo and Vince owned.

"Do you forgive me, baby?" Dean asked, leaning into Meg's face, his voice soft and gentle even though his eyes were radiating the complete opposite.

"Yes, _honey_," she said through clenched teeth. Then she sat back in the seat and stared straight ahead, her face a stone mask even though I could tell she was clearly pissed.

"Sorry for the drama," Dean apologized to the driver, his body relaxing but his hand still holding the gun to Meg's gut. I saw her eyes flicker down for a moment, watching it.

"No problem," the man chuckled as the light turned green and he stepped on the gas again. "I have a missus myself at home. Always causing me trouble."

"Women, huh?" Dean joked, and the cab driver laughed again, turning a corner like a madman. Meg flinched as Dean jabbed the gun into her side and then she was laughing nervously herself.

The rest of the ride was endured in tense silence. I wanted to know where Dean had gotten the gun, why he was even here, but I couldn't speak a word while the cab driver was listening. Thankfully, the older man didn't seem to notice that anything was amiss. Or maybe he just didn't want to get involved. Either way, he simply whistled along with the radio and when we reached our stop I paid him double the fare, as promised. Dean kept the gun hidden under his coat as we exited the car, though he made sure to keep it pointed in Meg's direction the entire time.

As the taxi pulled away I turned to Dean and spoke to him for the first time in days. "What the hell are you doing?" I yelled, not caring that the three of us were standing in the middle of a sidewalk in what appeared to be an industrial area. "Are you fucking insane?"

He looked at me like _I_ was the crazy one. "What, you were planning on letting her go after she saw your face? Or maybe you were just gonna let her drag you back to your stepfather," he sneered.

I glowered at him, about to retort, but then I realized something strange. "How do you even know who she is?"

For a moment he looked taken aback, but then he cleared his throat and said, "Vince mentioned her."

I tried to not show the shock on my face, or the emotions that unwelcomingly rose within me at the mention of that name. "How does _he_ know her?"

"You know, I'm right here," Meg's voice suddenly interrupted. She was balancing on her stilettos, one hip jutted out and her arms crossed over her chest as she gave us an annoyed look. "You can just ask me."

"Shut up, bitch," Dean growled, and I was surprised at the amount of loathing in his voice. He turned his attention back to me. "She's the one who oversaw Vince's little drug business. Supplied him with his product," he explained. "Which I'm guessing came from your stepfather since little miss sunshine here works for him."

My jaw was probably skimming the pavement at the moment, but I didn't care. I was trying to wrap my head around what Dean was saying, and also wondering how he seemed to know so much. "John's in the drug business?" was all I could say.

Meg cackled. "Are you saying you didn't know?" she asked me, clearly surprised. "You must be stupider than I thought."

I shot her a glare. "I knew his money wasn't exactly clean," I defended myself. "I just didn't know how it was getting dirty, all right?"

"It doesn't matter," Dean said as he grabbed Meg by the arm and began to drag her roughly up the steps of the building we were standing in front of. "We've got to decide what to do with her now."

"What do you mean?" I inquired as I followed him up the stairs, realizing that this wasn't an industrial area after all. It had certainly been one in the past, but I saw now that the block had been newly transformed into a residential zone. A sign was posted on the door of the building we entered, advertising loft apartments for "low, low prices". The place seemed empty of residents, however, and I saw that parts of the building were still in the construction stage.

Dean didn't answer my question as we waited for the elevator. He shoved Meg in first and I followed him inside the tiny space as he pressed the button that would raise us to the eighth floor. "Why were you at Midnight?" I suddenly asked, because the question had been weighing heavily on me for the past few minutes.

"I wanted to speak with Meg," he quickly replied as the elevator doors shut. "Didn't know you'd be working there,"

"I'm a popular girl," Meg crooned, but was immediately silenced by a look from Dean.

The elevator began to rise. "How'd you know John was my stepfather?" Suddenly I had a whole torrent of questions to ask him; things that didn't make sense and didn't seem to quite add up.

Dean kept his eyes on the numbers above the elevator door, watching as the 2 lit up followed by the 3 and the 4. Then he answered, "I did some digging on John when I found out Meg was working for him. Saw you two were connected."

I didn't really know how to feel about that. "Did..." I hesitated before asking the next question. "Did Vince know who I was? I mean... before you talked to him?" I still didn't understand why Vince and his pal had been so interested in me. Why they had hurt me like they had. The only explanation I could think of was that Dean had mentioned me and Vince had come up with the idea that hurting me would be like getting revenge on him. At first I couldn't think of a reason why my name would have come up, but now that I knew Vince was connected to my stepfather in some way, it seemed more comprehensible.

Dean cast me a momentary look. "He never mentioned you."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Did you mention me?"

The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open but Dean made no move to exit it. "No," he said after a pause, and then he was dragging Meg out and down the dimly lit hall and I had no choice but to follow.

We came to a stop in front of a door with the number 9 on it and Dean reached one hand into his pocket to retrieve a key. "When the hell did you get an apartment?" I asked as he inserted the silver key and opened the door, keeping the gun trained on Meg even as he manoeuvred the lock.

He faced me and shrugged. "Few days ago."

I let out a noise in disbelief. "And where exactly did you find the money to pay for it?"

"Turns out I'm good at hustling."

I cocked my head to the side, not understanding the word. "Hustling?"

"You know, poker and pool and stuff." He looked at me in amusement. "You can make a lot of money in a surprisingly short amount of time in a poker game."

I gaped at him openly. Who was this man standing in front of me?

"You boys gonna invite me in?" Meg asked, and I realized that for a moment I had forgotten she was there.

"Not really," Dean said casually as he pushed her through the doorway with a quick shove. She stumbled into the open space, almost tripping on her heels but catching herself on a beam that stood in the middle of the entranceway. As I entered the apartment myself and the lights flicked on I saw that we were in a decently spacious loft. Large paned windows lined the furthest wall but they were dirty with black soot so it was impossible to see out of them. Instead I saw an image of us three reflected back at me. To my left there were two closed doors and to my right a large kitchen. There was no furniture in the room except for an old-fashioned red couch sitting in the main room. The place looked like it had just been completed, sawdust and bits of plastic and pink insulation still lying about the concrete floor.

"Over there," Dean said as he wagged the gun in the direction of the furthest door. Meg gave him a dirty look but did as he commanded, opening it when he told her to do so. The three of us walked into a smaller room with no windows. I supposed it was to be used as a storage room. "Sit," Dean demanded, and Meg seated herself on a wooden chair which stood in the corner. She crossed her legs as she looked up at us expectantly.

"Sam, hold this." Suddenly the gun was being shoved in my hand and my eyes widened as I tried not to drop it. Then I was fighting the urge to throw it away. It was heavier than I had expected it to be but I managed to hold it properly. I found I couldn't point it directly at Meg, though, so I let the barrel face a point on the ground a few feet in front of her. Then I watched as Dean picked up a coil of rope and began to tie Meg to the chair. It was like he had planned this all.

When Dean finished he stepped back and held out his hand for the gun. However, I couldn't move my arms. It was like they had suddenly turned to stone. He didn't say anything as he reached over and gently pried it from my fingers, slipping it back into the space by the small of his back.

Meg looked from me to Dean and then back again. "Oh goody," she purred. "I'm with two good-looking men and I'm all tied up." She shifted in the chair, leaning forward so her neckline scooped downward.

"You can't seduce your way out of this, Meg," I spat, regaining my composure now that I wasn't holding a gun any longer. "I'm not John."

She didn't seem deterred by my words as she shifted her sight to Dean. "You may not be, Sam." She batted her eyelids. "But _he_ might be."

I looked over at Dean but his face showed no signs of lust as he stared at her. In fact, I'd never seen his eyes so cold. "You're not as hot as you think you are, Meg," I said as I returned my attention to the blonde. That seemed to wipe the smile from her lips. She scoffed as she sat back again, slouching in the chair.

"You know, these ropes are _very _unnecessary," she complained. "It's not like I can take on two guys."

I ignored her as I turned to Dean. "Well? What do we do now?"

His brow furrowed. "Keep her here for now, I guess. This place is pretty secure. I don't think anyone will be able to find her, at least for a few days."

"Didn't you want to talk to her?"

He shook his head. "That can wait. You should question her first."

His comment surprised me. "What would I ask her?"

He raised his eyebrows at me, as if the answer was obvious. "Don't you want to know why your stepfather sent a hitman to kill you? You told me yourself you were forced to jump from the train." It seemed Dean had figured a lot of things out already. I began to wonder what else he had been up to in the last five days.

Meg began to giggle. "John's always hated your guts, Sam. Why wouldn't he try to kill you?"

I turned on her. "I'm surprised he hasn't had _you_ killed yet, Meg. Three years and I'd think you'd be getting a little boring, no?"

She smiled up at me. "I know _a lot_ of tricks."

'You're a slut, Meg. That's all you ever were."

"If I'm a slut then so was your mother," she retorted.

It took every ounce of restrain in me to stop from hitting her. "You don't know anything about my mother," I snarled as I jabbed a finger at her. "She was nothing like you."

Meg's annoying laughter filled the room again. "John only kept her around because she was good in the sack. At least I'm able to contribute something more. I handle his business in _and_ out of the sheets. The only useful thing Mary ever did was kill herself."

I forced myself to breathe as my vision turned red. If I had still held the gun in my hands there was no doubt in my mind that Meg would have a bullet hole in her head right now. "She didn't kill herself," I heard myself say, my voice shaking. "John killed her."

"Oh my!" She put on an expression of fake concern. "How horrible."

"Shut up, bitch," I growled. "Now tell me the damn truth. Why did John kill my mom?"

The corners of her lips slowly turned upwards. "You can't keep me here forever, you know. People will realize I'm missing."

"Let them," I shot back. "Now tell me the truth or I swear I will kill you right here in this room."

She began to laugh. "You don't have the balls, Sam."

Dean stepped forward. "He may not, but I definitely do." His voice was like ice. I cast him a glance and immediately knew that he wasn't lying. He would kill her.

Meg seemed to realize this too, because her face had paled considerably, her voice lacking any amusement as she said, "I don't know why John had her killed, all right?"

Her words were like a punch in the gut, because even though I had been sure that John was behind my mom's death, this was the first time I had confirmation that my suspicions were correct. Rage began to boil through my veins and I had to clench my teeth to stop from yelling out.

"You're lying," Dean announced calmly and I was suddenly glad that he was here. He had never known my mother so he was capable of keeping a level head in this situation. He'd get Meg to talk. I was afraid that if I continued with the interrogation I wouldn't be able to stop myself from killing her before she gave me answers.

Dean crouched down, his eyes now on the same level as Meg's. His face was an emotionless mask as he asked, "Do you know what I'll do to you if you lie again?" His voice even made _me_ a little scared and Meg's eyes became wider as she stared at him. "Now answer Sam's question."

She opened her mouth but seemed to choke on her words. Then she let out a breath and said, "She was leaving. I heard that Mary was planning to leave and I don't think John liked that very much."

"You don't _think_?" Dean questioned, cocking his head to the side.

"I- I just know John wasn't happy about it, okay?" she stammered. "He never told me why he had her killed."

Dean stood up again and looked towards me. I ran a hand down my face, trying to control the emotions threatening to break through me, like a surge of water cracking open a damn. My mom and I could have been living across the country right now. We could have been happy if it wasn't for John. "Where is he?" I barely managed to say, my body shaking with anger. "Tell me where he is right now."

"I don't know." Meg shook her head. "He doesn't tell me everything."

"Liar!" I roared as I stomped towards her. "Tell the fucking truth! Where is he?" I was about to hit her when arms grabbed me and began to push me back. I struggled against Dean's strength but I was eventually shoved out of the room, the door slamming shut.

"Sam, calm down," Dean ordered as I tried to manoeuvre around him and reach for the door knob. "She doesn't know."

"How the fuck do you know?" I screamed as I finally backed up on my own, knowing it was useless to fight against him. He was stronger and older, and I was just a fucking kid, wasn't I?

"Because I can tell, Sam. I can tell she's not lying."

"You can't tell shit," I snapped as I began to pace the room, casting glances at the door Dean was blocking. Behind it was someone who could tell me where my stepfather was. I had never seen him outside of the house he had kept me and my mom in. I didn't know where he spent the rest of his time, but I needed to find out. Because I knew now that I wouldn't be satisfied unless John was dead. Screw the police and the justice system. For all I knew, he had them paid. It wouldn't surprise me.

I stopped treading and shut my eyes, gripping my head in my hands. "This is so screwed up." I took in a shaky breath as I tried to calm myself. "Everything is so screwed up."

I felt a hand touch my shoulder and suddenly I was throwing myself backward. I hit the rear of the couch and tore my eyes open, my heart beating like a jackhammer in my chest. For a moment I had been transferred back to the alleyway, Vince's hand on my shoulder pushing me down, but now I realized it had only been Dean who had tapped me. He was standing a few feet away, his body still blocking the door and a worried look on his face. I felt embarrassment at my reaction.

"Sorry," I mumbled, reaching up a hand to rub the back of my neck. I cast my eyes around the empty space, avoiding his gaze.

"You don't have to worry anymore," he said, and I looked at him, puzzled. But then I realized what he was talking about and I caught my breath.

"About what?" I asked, but I knew what.

"I took care of them." He stared at me, his face serious. "I made them pay. It's not enough, but..." he trailed off. "Well, just don't worry anymore."

I didn't respond. Mainly because I wasn't quite sure what Dean meant by 'took care of'. Or because I just didn't want to think about it. "What are you talking about?" I made sure I sounded irritated. I wanted him to stop talking _right now_. I didn't want him to confirm what I feared to be true. I didn't want him to tell me that he knew what had happened.

His gaze grew hard and stony. "When I came back from talking with Vince, Ash told me you might have gone after me. Then I saw you in the hall and I knew something was wrong. I saw the blood and..." He trailed off again but then continued with a stronger voice. "I went back and they were sitting at the bar. They were still _talking_ about it Sam. Talking about what they had done to you." His voice shook with anger.

There it was. He knew. I felt my knees weaken as I grasped the back of the couch to steady myself. "What..." I had trouble finishing the question so I tried again. "What are you talking about?"

He continued his story like he had never taken a pause, ignoring my weak inquiry. "So I walked up behind them. I swiped Vince's gun from his belt before he even knew I was there. Then I shot them both in the head. Right there in the bar. In front of everyone."

I stared at him for a moment as I tried to process what he had said. Vince and Leo were dead. The man who had raped me and the one who had helped him were both rotting with bullet holes in their brains. I supposed I should have been ecstatic but I only felt a cold rock in my gut.

"You killed them?" I asked, though I didn't really need him to repeat it. I knew now that the gun tucked away behind him _was_ Vince's gun.

Dean stood silently as he watched my reaction. Did he want me to thank him? To cry? To jump for joy? I didn't know what he expected and I certainly didn't know what was appropriate in a situation like this. How was I supposed to respond? I licked my dry lips and breathed in deeply as I stared at the door that Meg was behind. "No one was supposed to know what happened," I found myself saying.

"No one will," Dean assured me. "They can't brag about it any longer." I closed my eyes as I heard the venom in his voice. Dean had killed two people and he didn't even sound slightly shaken up by it. It scared me now that I knew what he was capable of.

Then I realized that I had been planning murder myself just a few minutes ago. I could have killed Meg. I wanted John dead and even now I knew that I was going to kill him. What made that so different from what Dean had done?

"I've got to go," I announced, not meeting his gaze again. "I've got to rethink a few things." Before he could say anything I was out the door and gone. I needed someone to talk to about all of this. Someone who wasn't involved. I couldn't quite believe it myself, but I needed a damn shrink.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX**

/

"_And I've been riding on this train so long, __I can't tell if it's you or me who is driving us into the ground._"

- _Volcano_, Beck

/

I looked around the room. It was surprisingly small, only capable of fitting an oak desk with two chairs situated on either side. I noted that the chairs were both the same, the shrink's no larger or more comfortable than the one used by her patients. There were a few plants standing around, including a cactus on the windowsill and a white potted flower on the edge of the desk. A plaque hung on the wall but I didn't bother to read it; probably just a piece of shiny wood bragging about her credentials.

"I'm glad you finally decided to agree to this session," Dr. Ellen Harvelle announced as she watched me closely. She probably thought I was at high risk of becoming a flight case, but the office wasn't so bad. Just a little claustrophobic, though I supposed many would call it 'cozy'.

I tried to recall the reason why I was here. Oh, right. I needed someone to help explain to me what the hell I was supposed to do. To try to make sense of the pieces of my life that had begun to crumble ever since I found my mother lying on her bedroom floor, blood slicking her throat and a knife resting in her open palm. It may sound corny, but I felt like the rest of me was going to fall apart if I didn't talk to someone.

Dr. Harvelle, who had told me to call her by her first name, walked around the desk and sat down. I remained standing by the door, still not sure if this was such a good idea. "Now," she began, shuffling a few papers on her desk to tidy it up. It didn't seem to bother her that I hadn't chosen to sit down yet. "Let me explain how this works. You don't have to tell me _anything _you feel uncomfortable telling me. That includes things about your personal life, like where you live outside of the shelter or the circumstances that have brought you here. That being said, there is nothing you _can't _speak to me about. Whether it's trouble at home or something else, you can tell me all about it if you want to."

"What if I have nothing I want to tell you?" I asked her, though that was far from the truth.

"That's fine too. We can talk about the weather if you like. Just as long as we speak for at least fifteen minutes. That's all I ask."

Fifteen minutes. I had the simultaneous thoughts that fifteen minutes was both too short and much too long.

Ellen continued, "Hell, you can lie the entire time if you want."

I found it difficult to believe that this shrink was actually fine with me lying to her, and I said as much. "That's ridiculous," I told her, because it was.

She shrugged. "I don't make the rules up. I only endorse and enforce them."

I bit my bottom lip. Nervous habit. "But doesn't lying defeat the entire purpose?" I sat down across the desk from her. The chair was surprisingly comfortable but I didn't allow myself to relax in it.

She chuckled. "You'd be surprised how much you can learn from a lie."

"I would?"

"Sometimes you learn more from a lie than from the truth."

Was she playing mind games with me already? I was allowed to lie but apparently that was more revealing than telling the truth. I guessed she was just trying to trick me into not lying. "Everything I say is confidential, right?" I enquired.

"Unless I have reason to believe that you are planning to commit a crime or are at risk of injuring yourself or another, everything we say here today will remain in my office. Otherwise it's my duty to report you to the appropriate authorities."

Then why the hell was I here? I couldn't very well tell her that I was planning to kill my stepfather. Or that I knew where a woman was being held hostage, tied to a chair in a storage room. I couldn't even mention Dean now, in case I let it slip that he had killed two men just last week because they had raped me. I scoffed. "That would be a little hard since you don't even have my name to report."

"True," she agreed, nodding her head. "But I'm _very _good at describing faces and I hear the NYPD have some talented composite artists."

"I'll keep that in mind," I grumbled. This had been a horrible idea after all. What had I hoped to accomplish, anyway? Now I was about to have a fifteen minute session with a shrink and I couldn't even tell her the _real _problems I was facing. I didn't even know if it was safe to lie anymore.

"So," she said, her voice becoming lighter now that the rules had been set out. "What _should _I call you? First names are safe."

I couldn't help but hesitate. Last time I had given out my name it had cost me more than I had cared to offer. "First names aren't always safe," I told her, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down and resting my hands on my knees. I was suddenly feeling claustrophobic again in the small office.

Ellen frowned slightly but it was quickly replaced with a calm expression. "You're right," she agreed. "They're not. I'm sorry for suggesting otherwise."

"You don't have to apologize," I told her sincerely. "Because they should be safe, you know? You should be able to tell your first name to someone and still stay anonymous. I mean, there are so many people out there who share the same name."

"Yes," she said. "There are. I know two other Ellens myself."

"I knew an Ellen once," I announced. "She was in my fifth grade class. Always wore her hair in pigtails." I sat further back in the chair. "I had a crush on her."

She smiled and it reminded me of the way my mom had smiled every time she had asked me if there were any girls at school who had caught my eye. I regretted now that I had never answered her. Truthfully, I had always refrained from telling her anything when I got home from school and she had asked me how my day was. I'd always used "boring" or "uneventful" as a response, or just a 'stop and stare' as I looked at the fresh bruises forming on her face and found I couldn't speak around the lump building in my throat. Those days were rare but numerous enough to fill me with anger again just by recalling them.

The shrink didn't seem to notice my change in mood. She was still smiling warmly. "I'd figure you for one of the popular kids in school," she said, a hand on her chin. "I bet you've had plenty of girl trouble in the past."

I shrugged. "Not really."

"Are you still in school?"

I sighed and shifted in my seat, crossing my ankle on my thigh and my arms on my chest. "No," I answered honestly, figuring school was a safe subject. "I'm supposed to graduate next month but I haven't been to class in over three weeks." I hadn't thought about school in a long time. With everything else going on it had kind of been pushed to the back of my mind. I was in my last year of high school, but after my mom had died I had simply stopped going. Now I realized I'd probably never go back.

It made me a little sad to think that my school life was over just like that. It had kind of been fun for me. I'd actually _enjoyed _studying, as freakish as that sounded, and had even entertained the idea of going to college and becoming a lawyer more than once. I definitely had the grades to accomplish as much, but now the possibility of that actually happening seemed too out of reach for me to even dream about. It worried me to look into the distance and not know where I was headed. To not even see a sign at the side of the road that was my future.

"When did you decide to drop out?" I realized Ellen had asked me the question almost a minute ago. I had been staring off into space as I mourned my school days, but now I snapped back to the moment.

"It wasn't really a decision," I finally replied. "Just kind of happened. School didn't seem very important at the time."

"School _is _very important," she enunciated. "Whatever made you drop out must have been pretty big in comparison. You seem like a smart kid."

Why did everyone feel the need to refer to me as a kid? I decided to let it slide this time. "Just a big change in my life." I looked out the window and at the apartment building across the street. There was a little boy sitting in a window on the second floor. A little boy with blonde hair. "I always wonder what colour hair he would have had," I said suddenly, releasing the thought that sprung to my mind without even running it through the usual filters. I felt strangely serene in the office now, like it was a little box I could whisper things into and it would keep my innocent secrets safe. Like it was a small compartment in my mind and the woman sitting in it was just a part of it all; someone who didn't exist and would never reveal my spoken thoughts to anyone.

"Who?"

"My brother." My voice sounded distant even to my own ears. I was still staring across the street at the little boy in the window. I figured he looked about the same age my brother would be now if he had lived. "My mom had blonde hair but... John's hair is dark. So I wonder sometimes, what colour his hair would have been."

"He probably would have taken after your father, like you," Ellen said.

I whipped my head around and threw a hard glare at her. "John is _not _my father," I told her firmly. She looked a little taken aback as I returned my gaze to the window, though not to the boy across the street. "It doesn't even matter," I mumbled angrily. "He's dead and he was only my half-brother too. I don't even care."

We were both silent for a time until she spoke again, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Your mother must have been very sad."

"I don't think so," I replied, realizing for the first time this was how I actually felt. I didn't know if Ellen heard me when I whispered afterwards, "I think she killed him herself."

I was glad when she changed the subject. "I noticed you have friends here. I've met Ash and Jo, but there's another one, isn't there?"

I knew she meant Dean but I told her she was mistaken. "I've known Jo and Ash for a while. Jo's like a little sister to me," I explained. "Ever since I first came here."

"And when was that?"

"A couple years ago." I remembered that day. It had been sunny and bright, the sky a brilliant blue above my head as I entered the shelter. I'd just been in an argument with my mom, nursing another failed attempt at convincing her to leave John.

"Are you glad you did?" Ellen asked me.

I'd forgotten what we'd been discussing. "Glad I did what?"

"Are you glad you came to the shelter?"

"Of course," I replied without hesitation. "It's what's kept me alive until now." I meant that literally. "I don't know how I would have survived if I didn't find this place."

"Survive what?"

That annoying alarm went off in my head again and I quickly answered, "Just life, I guess." I pondered that for a while. "Life can kill you, you know."

She frowned. "Trust me, I am very aware." The look on her face told me she had seen her fair share of tragedies. For a moment I felt like asking _her_ a question, because I wondered who shrinks went to when they had problems to discuss, or what listening to other people's problems all day long did to them. However, I didn't think she would appreciate me asking about her personal life.

"Do you think people deserve to die?" I blurted out instead, ignoring the alarm in my head and gaining a peculiar look.

"What do you mean?"

I took in a deep breath. "I mean, if someone does something really bad on purpose, is it okay if they die because of it?"

She cocked her head to the side and for a moment I was worried she knew what I was planning. That she had found out somehow that I was going to murder John. But then she spoke, and what she said surprised me. "Yes," she stated firmly. "I think if someone does something awful and they do it on purpose, if they _hurt _someone innocent very badly, they deserve to die."

There was something in her eyes... I couldn't quite recognize the look but I wondered if she had experienced something similar to what I was going through. The look was so intense that I couldn't continue to meet her gaze, so I let my eyes wander around the room for a few seconds, noticing that our fifteen minutes were up as I read the clock on the wall.

"I guess this wasn't too bad," I admitted. "I could probably do it again." It was the truth. Talking with Ellen hadn't been nearly as painful as I had first thought it would be. I was surprised. It may have even helped a little.

"Well, know that you're welcome here anytime, Sam."

I turned my head to look at her, my eyebrows slanting downward. "You knew my name all along?" I tried to recall if I had let my name slip at any point during our conversation.

"Jo told me," she said. "She's quite lively, that one. I'd be nervous to be her mother."

I guess I didn't mind too much if the shrink knew my name, and I laughed, knowing exactly what she meant about Jo. As I went to stand up she seemed to want to say something further, but then she closed her mouth and smiled again, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. "It was nice talking with you, Sam."

I nodded as I stood in the doorway. "Yeah. Maybe next time we'll switch chairs."

/

I returned to Dean's loft that afternoon. I needed to ask Meg some more questions. I was sure she knew things about John that could help me find him, and perhaps spending the night tied to a chair had loosened her tongue a little. It was a while after I knocked when Dean finally answered, and I was practically scared out of my wits when I saw he was holding a gun at the ready when the door swung open. "Sorry," he apologized as he let the firearm drop loosely to his side. "Can't be too careful."

He was dressed only in a pair of ripped jeans and it reminded me of the first time I had met him. His hair was wet now too, and I figured he had been in the shower when I had knocked. As he turned around I found myself stunned again by the sight of his tattoo. The sun wasn't shining on it this time, but I had forgotten how striking the wings were; how they could fool you into thinking that they were actually real.

"Careful about what?" I asked as I closed the door and followed him.

"I'm sure Vince and his pal had friends," he explained as he entered the kitchen and placed the gun on the counter. "That means I have some enemies now, and those are only the ones I _know _about."

He was right. Dean and I were kind of in the same boat: we both had people who wanted us dead.

I noticed he was avoiding my eyes. Usually that was my job, so I wondered what was wrong. It seemed like he was unsure how to act around me; unsure if I was angry or disgusted at him after he had admitted to killing Vince and Leo. I still didn't know what I thought about it all but I knew I didn't feel any of those emotions towards him. In fact, I felt a little bad for never having thanked him for helping me deal with Meg. I had been so occupied by my own problems I'd forgotten Dean had some of his own.

I cleared my throat, deciding I should show some interest. "Vince... Did he tell you who you were looking for at the shelter that day?"

"Yeah." He was watching me warily now, like he was gauging my mood. "Just some kid."

I nodded my head. "Just some kid," I repeated, but my mind was focused on other things. "I need to talk to Meg again. I have more questions."

"All right, but not right now. She's sort of unconscious at the moment."

"She's sleeping? Then I'll wake her up. The princess can miss her beauty sleep once," I sneered.

"No, I mean she's physically _unconscious_."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "She kept screaming when I left the room, so I gave her something to knock her out."

I looked at him, bewildered. "What'd you give her?"

"Just an injection. She'll be fine when she wakes up in a few hours."

I didn't even want to ask where he had gotten the 'injection' from. Instead, I leaned back against the kitchen counter. "The police are gonna be after you," I said quietly, picking up our conversation from the last time I was here.

"For a guy like Vince and his pal?" Dean shook his head. "I don't think so. If anything, I've done them a favour."

I looked at him and what I saw unnerved me. "You really don't feel any remorse?" I asked him.

He scowled. "Should I? For _them_?"

I looked down at my hands clasped in front of me. "People usually feel remorse after they've killed a person. No matter how much they may have deserved to die."

I heard him sigh. "Are you going to feel remorse after you kill your stepfather?"

I wondered how he knew I was planning to kill John, but I guessed it was pretty obvious. "He killed my mother."

"And what those bastards did to you was no worse?" he demanded to know.

My head snapped up and I glowered at him. "My mom sacrificed everything for me. John made both our lives miserable and then he killed her. He _has _to pay for that with his life."

Dean laughed coldly. "Yeah, he does," he agreed. "Just like Vince and his friend did. A life for a life."

I breathed out in frustration as I leaned my head on my hand. "They didn't kill me."

"Doesn't mean they didn't deserve to die. Destroying a life doesn't always mean ending it." Dean said firmly, and I knew it was useless to try to argue with him.

I shook my head again and began to turn away. "I don't understand you," I said, planning to leave the apartment again and return when Meg woke up. How had everything turned so messy so quickly?

A hand grabbed my wrist as I turned. "Screw me," I heard Dean say, and my eyes widened.

"What?" I exclaimed as I swung around again, not believing I had heard correctly. But I had, because when he repeated the two words they were the same as before. _Screw me_. Said so simply, like he was telling me to spot him while he did a few bench presses at the gym. I didn't know what to say, so I told him he was crazy.

"What you went through, Sam..." I suddenly felt the urge to punch him for bringing this topic up. Why couldn't he just leave it alone? I was trying to move on. What happened, happened. He'd said that once himself before. "You were put in a situation where you had no control. Where any power you held was stolen from you. I just want you to feel in control again." He took a step closer. "I want you to screw me hard and I want you to enjoy it."

I couldn't understand. Why was he saying this to me? Why did I still feel like hitting him? "Fuck you," I hissed angrily. I had meant it as an insult, but he twisted the words in his mind and smirked roguishly.

"Yeah. Do that."

I felt my heartbeat quicken against my will as anger surged within me. Anger and something else.

"Come on, Sam," he taunted, his voice becoming deeper as he moved closer. "Don't you want to? I know you enjoyed it when I had my tongue in your mouth."

I felt myself blush deeply. Why was he bringing that up? What did he really want from me? "Shut the hell up, Dean," I warned. "I was high."

He laughed and it sounded almost cruel. "High or not, Sam, you liked it. You wanted me that night and I know you still do."

I glared at him, my hands curling into fists by my sides. "You're a bastard, you know that?" I said, my voice dipping in volume. "I'm straight. I don't screw guys."

"But they screw you." He said this bluntly, his voice lacking emotion as he looked at me with a blank stare.

"If you want me to admit they deserved to die, I won't. They didn't kill me, Dean." My voice was shaking as I held back the urge to scream at him.

"No. They only raped you," he sneered. "They only screwed you in an alley until you bled and then left you to pick up whatever was left of your dignity." He looked at me like I was pathetic, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe you deserved it after all."

A part of my brain registered that my breathing was becoming out of control. I gulped down air like there wasn't enough of it in the atmosphere, because I couldn't believe he had just said that. I couldn't believe he had _just. Fucking. Said. That_.

Before I realized what was happening, I had reached back an arm and let my fist fly. I felt my knuckles collide with the side of his face, an explosion of pain rocketing up my wrist. Then he was catching himself on the counter, a cut appearing beneath his eye. My anger did not ebb with the sudden outburst of violence. I wanted to beat the crap out of him. I wanted to make him hurt. I wanted to... I wanted to screw him. Hard. Before I could stop myself I was hitting him again, this time using the back of my hand. I reached across my chest and then brought the butt of my fist crashing down on his head, slamming it into the counter. He crumpled to the floor.

I felt a furious heat tear through me, mixing with the rage that was already threatening to blind me. He gave little resistance, though I wasn't sure if it was because I had hit his head too hard or he really wanted me to screw him. Either way, I didn't care. He had asked for this, and even if he changed his mind I knew I wouldn't stop. My eyes crawled up his tattoo as I kneeled behind him, tracing the graceful curves of the angel wings. I saw the muscles in his back bunch and then he groaned in pain. I was hurting him and somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that was wrong, but the rest of me told me to forget it. To forget about thinking and to just _do_. All I wanted was to feel something good for a change.

He never pleaded with me to stop. Not once. When it was over, he rolled his head to the side, resting it against his arm. The side of his face was already beginning to bruise, the cut on his cheekbone an angry red line. The same colour that had stained my shoelaces. I sat back against the cupboards, reaching up to grab a hold of the edge of the counter. _What the fuck did I just do? _I asked myself. _What the _fuck _did I just do?_

He had asked me to screw him, not rape him. Not take him on the dirty kitchen tiles and make him bleed. Not make him experience the same humiliation I had gone through. As these thoughts swarmed in my mind I felt panic build inside of me. Then he tried to move, and when I heard him suppress a sound of pain, all the powerful emotions I had felt earlier disappeared. I was empty now, but regret and shame were quickly filling the void. He was trying to stand, dragging his knees forward, and I wanted to help him, but I couldn't move. I couldn't look at him and stare at what I had done. I couldn't be here.

Before I knew it, I was jumping onto my feet and pulling my pants up, not even bothering to button them before I ran out of the kitchen and out the front door and down the stairs and out the building and down the street. Away from it all. Away from that person I had been for those moments in that kitchen while Dean was beneath me. Away from Dean himself. Away from my mind and the accusations I was screaming at myself.

I turned into an alley just as it was getting dark, having run for blocks. I had knocked a woman to the sidewalk in my haste but hadn't stopped to apologize. Hadn't stopped for anything. Now I crouched against the brick wall, wishing my mom had never died. Wishing she had never married John. Wishing Dean had never saved me. Wishing I didn't know what I knew now: that he was the only person I could trust, and the person I had just screwed mercilessly. Because he'd asked me to.

Wishing I could go back to when I was a kid; when my real dad had been alive and I'd lived happily with him and my mom. Innocent. Pure. Not crouched in an alley with disgrace weighing so heavily on me I couldn't even lift my head. The only problem was, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember that time. I couldn't remember my real father, and with horror I realized that my mom's face had become fuzzy in my mind's eye too.

I wanted to cry but no tears would fill my eyes. It seemed I had finally lost the ability to shed tears.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter X**

/

"_I'm living in an age that screams my name at night, but when I get to the doorway there's no one in sight_."

- _My Body is a Cage_, Arcade Fire

/

Imagine a world with no responsibility. No comprehension of right or wrong, good or bad. No conscience. We all lived in a world like that once, when we were children; still too young to realize how the world worked; still unable to grasp the idea of death; still too innocent to understand evil. I often tried to recall that time, when my life was spent in such a soft, comforting snow globe of a world, but I could never fully remember it, and as I stared up at the yellowing ceiling above me I wondered why memories were so tricky. We always seemed to recall the things we wanted to forget, while the important memories slipped through the cracks of our mind, like sand in an hourglass.

I couldn't sleep because every time I closed my eyes the darkness of my eyelids would transform into an image of Dean beneath me. I recalled the angry swirl of emotions I had felt, wondering how they had come and gone so quickly. Recalling my actions filled me with remorse, but I knew I couldn't erase what I had done. I wondered if he was okay, but the thought of returning to his apartment brought only dread. I didn't want to see the bruises on his face or whatever expression his features would reveal, because I knew it wouldn't be a very welcoming one. Dean had done nothing but try to help me, and how had I repaid him? I didn't want to think about it... So instead, I stared up at the shelter's ceiling and fought the exhaustion I felt, worrying about Meg and my stepfather. And in the background, an image of the coffin holding my mother being lowered into the ground, repeated over and over like a broken film strip.

Turning onto my side, I glanced at the clock on the side table. 3:09AM. I wished there was a window in this room, because without one it seemed more suitable as a closet. I wasn't claustrophobic but I suddenly felt the urge to see the night sky, even if there were no stars. I found myself randomly pondering what would happen if all the lights in New York simultaneously shut off. I wondered if the stars would appear immediately, or if they'd slowly fade into existence. Perhaps they'd continue to hide.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

I immediately sat up in bed as the noise exploded through the room, wondering who would be visiting at this bizarre time. Then again, New York _was_ the city that never slept. I convinced myself it was probably just someone looking for an empty room who didn't know the rules around here. A closed door meant occupied. "Room's taken!" I called out, flopping back down onto the mattress and letting out a frustrated sigh. I kicked the sheets tangled around my legs, hating that the shelter wasn't air conditioned.

The knocking came again, this time quieter. "Sam, open up."

I sucked in a breath. That was unmistakably Dean's voice. Sitting up again, I stared at the door, the thin crack of light pouring in from the bottom crack darkened by a shadow on the other side. I opened my mouth to say something, perhaps to lamely tell him that he had the wrong room, but nothing came out. Not a word.

The knock came again. This time it was a simple 'thud', like maybe Dean had let a fist fall against the door. A long sigh came next, and then more words, spoken firmly. "Open the door, Sam."

I really didn't know what to expect. Would he be angry? Disgusted? Would he have a gun pointed at my head seconds after I opened the door? It was difficult to tell by only listening to his voice. I supposed the only way to know was to see him, to read his expression and interpret his actions. I supposed I had to open the door.

I swung my legs over the bed and got to my feet, the wooden floorboards groaning beneath my weight as I covered the short distance to the entrance. I flicked the light switch on before I placed one hand on the doorknob and twisted the lock with the other. Then I took a step back as I swung the door inwards, making sure to stare down at my feet instead of at the man standing in the doorway. He walked in and I was forced to take a step back, my eyes still glued to the floor. The door clicked as it closed behind him.

I felt fingers on my chin and then my head was being roughly tilted upwards. My eyes met Dean's for a moment, but it was too fleeting for me to discern what emotions they held. I couldn't hold his gaze and the room suddenly felt stifling, my lungs screaming for fresh air. I couldn't do this. I tried to get around him, to open the door again-

"Hey, hey, hey," he said quickly as he caught my shoulders and prevented me from escaping. "Stop it." He took my face between his hands and forced me to face him. "Listen to me, Sam. You didn't do anything wrong, okay? You didn't hurt me."

"I made you bleed, Dean," I said, my hands shaking as I kept my eyes cast downward. "I _did _hurt you."

"Well, I let you," he said matter-of-factly. "You don't think I could have stopped you if I had wanted to?"

I allowed my gaze to shift, to look at the dark bruise stretching across the edge of his face. I followed the blue and black trail, his eyes returning to my vision but my own still unwilling to meet them. "But your head... The counter..."

He chuckled, releasing my face and allowing his hands to drop by his sides. "You're not as strong as you think you are, Sammy. I'd give it a few years before you can pack enough to knock the wits from a man. Though you did come pretty close."

Without the support of his hands I felt my head slump downward again. "Look, I'm not..." I closed my eyes. "What I did, it's not... Not something I ever thought I'd do. It was just- I'm not..." My eyelids slid open once more as I raised my head, trying to explain, and suddenly I was staring directly into his eyes.

"Gay?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I shrugged, glancing away. "Yeah. That. And..." I didn't know how to word it. "Aggressive, I guess."

He laughed. "Don't worry, Sam. And I think I prefer women myself."

I stared at him, the expression on my face probably mirroring the confusion in my mind. "I don't understand..." My voice trailed off.

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "When I asked you to screw me, I thought it would help," he explained. "If you had the control, if you were given the power instead of the reverse, I thought it would help you get over what happened to you."

I scoffed and shook my head, looking away from him. "Do you know how insane that sounds?"

"Did it work?"

I returned my gaze to him. He was watching me with unblinking eyes, true sincerity in his expression. I could see now that, in his own warped way, he really had meant to help me. I couldn't stop myself from letting out a laugh at the absurdity of his reasoning. "I don't think something like that is really fixable."

But even as I said this, I knew it _had_ helped somewhat. I felt lighter now, like the world wasn't about to crash down on my head in a giant wave, threatening to drown me. I don't know exactly why, but what had happened between me and Dean, no matter how messed up it was, had healed me in some way. Not fully, of course – I doubted I'd ever be able to recover fully from that moment in my life – but enough to make me smile slightly as I stood before him. To smile in a way I hadn't been able to for weeks. Perhaps even years.

Maybe it was the fact that I had reached rock bottom. I had never felt so disgraced after what I had done to Dean. Now that I knew I hadn't hurt him in the way I thought I had, it was like I was already on my way up. Like no matter how bad things got, I knew I'd already sunken to the lowest point of my life, and that it was impossible for me to return to that place after being there once.

"Honestly, who are you?" I asked him, though I knew he wouldn't be able to answer. There were no ill feelings festering in my voice. I said it jokingly, almost in awe. Here was a man who had appeared in my life out of nowhere, just when it had started to fall apart, and now he seemed to be the only one helping me shoulder the weight, keeping the pieces from disassembling completely. I wanted to thank him, but I didn't quite know how. "Is Meg still at your apartment?" I asked him instead.

He seemed to ponder the change in subject for a moment, but then pressed his lips together as if to dismiss any comment he had about it. "When I left she was still passed out. Guess what I gave her was stronger than I intended."

I frowned. "I still need to ask her some questions. When will she be up?"

"Before sunrise, for sure."

Nodding slowly, I pondered what to do. "Maybe we should head to your apartment now. Get there before she wakes up."

"Sure," he agreed.

I grabbed the backpack I had begun to tow around, which held my sparse wardrobe and few toiletries. When I went to move around him again, reaching out to turn off the light, he caught my wrist in his hand. "Hey, we're okay, right?"

I looked at him in the sudden darkness. His outline was barely visible, my eyes trying to adjust again to the lack of light. My loss of vision made me increasingly more aware of his fingers on my wrist. "Yeah," I replied, my words carrying more confidence than I felt. "You've helped me out a lot. With Meg and..." I trailed off, still a bit uncomfortable with some sections of our past. "I guess I should be thanking you."

He let go of my wrist and my arm swung back to my side. "No need," he said, probably smirking. "That's what friends do for each other, isn't it? Kidnap your father's mistress... Shoot the thugs that mess with you... Stop you from doing it with a club ho but let you screw my brains out... I could go on."

"Please don't." I couldn't help but let out a sound of disbelief. When stated aloud and so simply, it really was all absurd.

"Well, you seem to be the only friend I've got at the moment," he said suddenly, his voice becoming serious.

I wished I could see his expression, but it was too dark. So I cleared my throat instead. "Don't forget Ash and Jo," I reminded him, not knowing how else to reply.

"Ah, of course," Dean breathed in, the natural sarcasm I was starting to become familiar with returning to his voice. "The bartender with an IQ of 180 and the cheerful prostitute. What a team we make."

I laughed again. He was right, but just then I jumped as another knock sounded on the door right next to me. "Sam, you in there?" It was Jo. I immediately pulled the door open and the girl rushed in, her face pale in the light that poured in from the hallway. "Thank God! I've been knocking on door after door." She glanced at Dean but seemed to be too much in a rush to say a greeting. "Listen, there's two cops downstairs looking for you. They're talking to the shrink lady right now, but I heard them mention your name more than once. Sam Winchester. They know you're here."

My body went numb. Police officers? There were a number of reasons why they could be here. Were they investigating my disappearance? Did they discover my mom's death was not a suicide and came to question me? Had they connected Vince and his pal's murders to me? Did they know me and Dean had kidnapped Meg?

"They say what they were here for?" Dean asked Jo. She shook her head.

"I just heard Sam's name," she answered. "Why? Did you do something bad, Sam?"

I heard Dean curse beneath his breath and I felt the urge to do the same, only louder. I was torn between the good scenario and the bad. I felt like I should slip out of the shelter unnoticed, but another part of me wondered if the officers were here because they knew what a scumbag my stepfather was. Maybe I was to be a witness against him. Maybe I could bring my mother's killer to justice by a means other than bloody revenge. After all, it was highly unlikely that he had the _entire_ NYPD bought and paid for.

...wasn't it?

Without discussing it with the others, I pushed past Jo and began to head downstairs. Dean called behind me, his tone firm, but I ignored him. I stopped on the top steps of the stairs, squatting down to glance between the banister posts and to gain a glimpse of the officers. Their backs were turned towards me as they spoke with Ellen, whose face looked grim as she nodded her head, arms crossed on her chest.

I felt Jo behind me, her breath tickling my hair, as Dean crouched next to me on the steps. "Are you fucking crazy?" he hissed. "We've got to get out of here."

"What if they're here to help?" I whispered, my eyes not leaving the two officers. Both had guns strapped to their belts.

"Trust me, they're probably not."

"How do you know?" I asked angrily, but just then Ellen spotted me and suddenly pointed in my direction. As the officers simultaneously turned around, fear spread throughout my chest as I recognized the face of one. His name was Carl. In the past, he had dropped by our house on a few occasions to speak with John. I knew he worked for my stepfather.

"Run!" I yelled, just as the two men reached towards their belts and gripped their guns. I pushed Jo back down the hall, the girl stumbling as she was forced to turn around and start running. I felt Dean behind me and prayed that he was following. My focus was the end of the hallway, where it branched off. If we went to the right it would lead us to the washrooms, where I knew there was a fire escape. The only problem was, the hallway was long, and bullets had a nasty habit of outrunning people.

I heard Ellen scream something over the crash of footsteps on the stairs, but then her voice was interrupted by the sounds of gunfire. I'd never heard anything so loud in my life. It wasn't anything like what you heard in action flicks. This was the real deal, and my brain rattled around in my skull as my world went deathly silent after the first shot. I was still running, but I couldn't hear my shallow breaths or my sneakers pounding the floor. I knew Jo was screaming as she bolted down the hallway in front of me, her small hands pressed to her ears, but I couldn't hear her either.

Then came the second shot, and a third and a fourth. These were quieter, like the world was suddenly submerged in water. Still, I knew that two of the shots had not come from the officers. I figured Dean had removed his own gun and was firing back. A loud ringing began to drown out everything else, but now safety was only a few feet in front of me. Jo was already rounding the corner, unharmed as far as I could tell, and I was quick to follow. I almost skidded across the floorboards as I took the turn, pushing Jo towards the washrooms before she had time to take a breath.

"The fire escape!" I yelled, though I could hardly hear myself. The ringing was like a bell tolling inside of my head, eliminating all other sounds. Fortunately, it seemed like Jo understood, for she quickly pushed open the washroom door and ran to the window, immediately beginning to pry it open. Only when I had reached the fire escape did I chance a look back. Dean was standing in the doorway, pointing a gun down the hallway. His teeth were gritted as his arms shook from the force of each shot he fired.

I heard my name and turned to face Jo, who was standing out on the fire escape and reaching in to grab my shirt. I allowed myself to be pulled outside, having to bend my body awkwardly in order to fit through the cramped opening. Jo was beginning to climb down the ladder when I made it fully outside, a slight drizzle immediately covering my limbs in a watery sheen. I looked back into the building but Dean was already there, pushing me forward as he came through the window.

"Go!" he shouted, and I followed Jo down the ladder, not entirely sure how I was able to do so with the rungs wet and my hands shaking the way they were. As soon as my feet touched the ground Jo was pulling me down the side alley that ran beside the shelter. I didn't have to look back to know that Dean was right behind us. The ringing in my ears had already begun to fade and I could hear his footsteps. Jo led us through a hole in a wooden fence and suddenly we were in someone's unkempt backyard. I had to jump over an old, abandoned wheel barrow before we were scaling a smaller wire fence, and then we were in some sort of construction yard. It went on like this for a while, Jo leading us from place to place; across a busy street, passed an empty shopping mall, through a shabby fast food joint. I was thankful that she was so familiar with the area, but my heart continued to thump in my chest even when we finally stopped running. We were standing in the parking lot of an old, rundown motel. The place had obviously gone out of business a long time ago, the "No Vacancy" sign missing a few letters and soggy trash piled all around.

"I can't... Run anymore..." Jo heaved, her hands on her knees and her head hanging between her shoulders as she tried to regain her breath. I had no idea where we were.

"I think we lost them," Dean announced as he looked towards the direction we had come from. I noticed that he didn't seem to be out of breath at all. A sheen of rainwater covered his face and bare arms, his right hand still clutching the gun. I swallowed as I looked at the black device, but then I noticed that a rivulet of red was running down his left arm, turning pink where it mixed with rainwater.

"You're bleeding," I said. He turned his eyes to me and then towards the spot I was looking.

"Bullet wound," he said, as if it was a casual occurrence for him to have holes in his body.

"You were shot?" Jo squeaked, looking at Dean's arm with large eyes. Her face was as pale as flour. I suspected my complexion had lost its rosiness as well.

"I'm fine," he replied, almost amused. "We should see if we can get into one of these motel rooms and wait out the night. Jo, is there a drug store nearby?"

"There's one a block away," she said, her voice faint.

"Good. I need you to buy me a few things. Alcohol, bandages, and a set of tweezers."

"What about the guys after us?" I asked. "It's not safe to-"

"I shot one in the leg," Dean replied as he began to make his way to the empty motel, a hand now clutching his shoulder. "I doubt his partner will look for us alone. It didn't seem like they had any back up nearby."

"I'm on it!" Jo said as she gave a little salute. It seemed her cheerfulness had returned now that Dean's wound was out of sight. I watched as she bounded away, her blonde hair bouncing along in its pony tail. Then I followed Dean to where he was trying to find an unlocked room.

It looked like this place had been used by squatters before. The locks on most of the doors had already been broken, and each one we entered was littered with beer cans, dirty needles, and used condoms. We finally chose the owner's office, which was reasonably cleaner than the other rooms. By the time Jo came back, Dean had removed his shirt, revealing the bloody mess that was his shoulder. I could barely look at the wound, but Dean had no problem with examining it. He winced slightly as he prodded the injury. It seemed the bullet had hit him in the back of his shoulder, but had not gone completely through.

"Fuck," he sighed. "I would have told you to make a trip to the liquor store too, if it were open," he told Jo.

"Is it bad?" I asked, grimacing. I had no experience with bullet wounds, so I supposed even the small ones would look life-threatening to me, but Dean didn't seem to be very anxious.

"Not too bad," he said as he finally turned his attention away from the injury. He grabbed the shopping bag from Jo and set the items on the desk. "The bullet missed the bone but didn't get embedded too far. I was lucky."

I nodded my head, not really sure he could call himself 'lucky' after being shot.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Jo asked, scrunching her face up as she examined the gunshot wound.

He went to shrug but then seemed to think better of it. "This may sound weird, but I'm pretty sure I've been shot before." I could believe it, looking at the number of scars scattered across his chest and arms. "I'm gonna need someone to dig this bullet out for me."

My eyes widened. "One of us?"

"I can't do it myself," Dean retorted. "I can't reach. I'd just make a bigger mess of it."

"I'll do it!" Jo said, raising a hand in the air as if she was volunteering to be the class president. I wondered where her earlier squeamishness had gone.

"Think you can?" Dean asked her, looking a little sceptical.

"A few years ago I was working at some dive downtown, and this drunk asshole bashed a glass on a waitress's face. She gut cut up real bad, and when I went to the hospital with her I got to watch the doctor pull shards of glass from her face. That's kind of like this, isn't it? I can totally handle it."

"That's a touching story, Jo," Dean said. "I don't think it's really the same thing, though."

As disappointment etched Jo's features, I piped up. "I have good hand-eye coordination. My biology teacher said I have the hands of a surgeon."

Dean sighed. "That's good enough for me, I guess."

Twenty minutes later, after a superb lesson in cursing from Dean, the bullet was out and the wound was disinfected and bandaged. I'd done a pretty good job, at least for my first time. Dean had said so himself. Made me wonder how he had gained such experience to decide such a thing...

Jo was asleep on the couch in the entrance as I cleaned up the mess on the desk, discarding bloody tissues into an empty trashcan that had been left behind in the motel office. Dean stood in front of the window, checking out my bandage job in the reflection. "I hope this doesn't ruin my tattoo..." he mumbled.

I scoffed. "You were shot and your biggest concern is that it may have ruined your tattoo?"

"It's a cool tattoo," Dean defended as he pierced me with a glare in the reflection of the window. I shook my head as I lifted myself onto the front counter.

"Those guys were after me," I announced. "They were sent by my stepfather." Dean didn't reply, so I added, "I almost got you killed."

"Well that's not something new. Remember when you called those bikers cavemen? Almost got us killed then too."

I scowled. "I'm serious, Dean. You _and _Jo." I glanced at the sleeping girl on the couch. "You both almost died because of me. I should have never let you become involved in all of this. I have to-"

"Shut up, Sam." I did. "I'm pretty sure I'm older than you, which means I can decide for myself who and what I want to get involved with. As for Jo, with the way she looks at you I'm pretty sure she's willing to do anything for you, including risk her life. So that settles it. Stop bitching."

I was too bewildered to reply. Instead, I bit my lip and glanced to the side, my eyes falling on an empty picture frame. Dean was right. I couldn't tell him what to do, and there was no use casting Jo aside. She was already involved and probably safest with me and Dean now. There was no way I was allowing her to return to the shelter. I was happy that Ash had been working at the bar during the time of the shooting.

"What do we do now?" I asked, my voice quiet.

Dean turned his head to face me, a hard glint in his eyes. "What else? We return fire with fire."

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter XI**

/

_"And it's almost noon and I ain't got nowhere to go."_

- _Superbad_, Travie McCoy

/

"Who is that?" Jo questioned, trying to peer inside the room.

Dean stopped her before she reached the open door, taking her shoulders and steering her away. "No one you have to worry about."

I heard Meg cackle and glanced into the storage room, my hand on the doorknob. "Are you going to tie her up too, boys?" she asked, her voice strained. I could tell she was having difficulty keeping up her sarcastic, venomous facade. Still, she leered at me from the chair she had been tied to for the past few days. "Did you tire of me already?" she asked, her voice sounding falsely innocent.

I wondered if she had pissed herself yet.

"Shut up, bitch," Dean growled, reaching beside me and taking the doorknob from my hand. As he pulled the door closed he leaned his head close to mine. "Don't let them see each other," he told me before joining Jo in the kitchen. She was looking nervously at the storage room door, but she quickly turned her gaze to me as I walked up. I was trying not to stare at the spot on the kitchen floor where Dean and I had- yeah.

"Who was that?" she asked. "What did she mean, tied up?" Maybe it was a mistake to bring Jo here, but there had been no other choice. I wanted her close and I still needed to speak with Meg. This was just how it was going to be.

Dean sighed heavily. "Listen, Jo. Sam and I are in a bit of a... pickle, so if you could ask the least amount of questions possible, we'd really appreciate it."

Jo gasped, clutching the kitchen counter. "Are you guys in trouble with the mafia or something?"

"Something like that..." I muttered.

"I totally want in on this," she exclaimed, her voice giddy. "I can, like, go undercover or something and seduce men to learn information. I could help you!"

"Maybe next time," Dean mumbled. "But right now I need you to resist your curiosity and just trust me when I say you don't want to know any more than you need to. We only brought you here because it seems to be the safest place for you right now. Those men at the shelter were after Sam, and they may have seen you, so we want you close now, but not too close. Understand?"

Jo turned large, unblinking eyes towards me. "Why were they trying to kill you?"

I ran a hand through my hair. "My stepfather wants me dead, and it seems he's sort of a big deal," I explained, unwilling to go into much more depth about my situation. Dean was right: the less Jo knew, the better.

"Is he like the kingpin or something?" she asked, jaw hanging loosely and openly now. The girl had obviously watched too many movies.

"It doesn't matter," I replied. "Please just drop it, Jo."

She closed her mouth and stared at me intently for a few seconds. I was afraid she was going to protest, but then she nodded once. "Consider it dropped."

Dean went to the stainless steel refrigerator and pried open the door. "You guys can help yourself to anything I've got, though I'm afraid it isn't much." He pulled out a canister of vanilla yogurt, complete with plastic spoon. "I've gotta feed the bitch," he grumbled before heading off to the storage room.

"Wow," Jo said as we watched Dean disappear into the room. "You guys are the real deal, aren't you? Guns, hostages... I think this is the most excitement I've had in a while."

I gave her a bizarre look. "You call being shot at exciting?"

She shrugged her shoulders, smiling at me. "Beats crappy sex with strangers."

I frowned and her smile disappeared. Without it, she looked worn out, and I found myself wondering if she had been sleeping well recently. Looking at her now, I realized she had been shaken up more than she was letting on.

"You okay, Jo?" I asked her softly, touching her arm. It seemed that small amount of contact was enough to break her, because suddenly tears were brimming in her eyes and her bottom lip began to quiver. Not once had I ever seen Jo cry, and the sight made something lurch inside of me. It seemed wrong.

"They almost killed you," she said, her voice shaky. "They shot Dean and they almost shot you. I almost lost you."

A tear slid down her cheek and I began to panic. I didn't know how to comfort her or how to stop the flow of tears, but I couldn't stand to watch her cry, so I pulled her towards me and hugged her. The scent of cherries immediately wafted around me, mingling with the faint odour of cigarette smoke. I clutched her tighter.

"I'm still here," I said.

I heard her sniffle but then she laughed, like she had remembered something funny; an inside joke she could share only with herself. "Sam, I think I love you."

I stroked her hair, praying that the tears had stopped. I didn't want to feel that empty helplessness that had lurched inside of me again. "I love you too, Jo."

"No, I think I'm _in_ love with you," she stated, as if she couldn't believe it herself, and then I was leaning back, holding her at arm's length.

"What?"

She wiped away the remaining tears from her cheeks. "I've always been," she said. "And that night when you kissed me-"

"Hold on a second," I interrupted her, because what she was saying wasn't computing fast enough in my brain. Jo... Jo was in love with me? I cocked my head to the side. Had there been signs? Had I missed them all?

I heard Dean exit the storage room but did not look over Jo's shoulder to watch him. I was still too stunned by Jo's unexpected confession. The truth was, maybe a few years ago I would have been able to return the feelings. When I had first met her I had even had a crush on her, but that had quickly turned into affection that was close to what one held for a sister.

Jo seemed to take my silence as an answer. "Is there someone else?" she demanded to know, her eyebrows knitting.

I faltered as I went to answer the question, my eyes involuntarily flicking towards Dean. He was sitting on the couch now, his eyes watching us carefully. I wondered how much of the conversation he had already heard.

"Damn, I knew there was someone else," she complained. "Is it Rebecca? I see the way she's always looking at you at the shelter. Damn slut... She already has so many boys around her yet she always needs more."

I saw Dean stifle a laugh behind Jo and I felt my cheeks grow hotter. "No, there's no one else, Jo. I don't even know who Rebecca is." It was the truth.

"She's the one who's always playing pool even though she can't play for shit. She just does it so she can bend over and tease the boys. Don't ever fall for it, you got it, Sam? I swear, if you ever-"

I grabbed Jo by the hand and led her to the bathroom, leaving Dean on the couch where I could imagine he was bent over double with a hand clamped over his mouth, barely managing to control his hysterics. I shut the door behind us and faced Jo, making sure that she was focusing on what I was saying.

"Jo, there is _no one_ else. I just don't think of you in that way."

"Is it because I turn tricks?" she asked earnestly. "I'll stop, I swear. You told me you wished I'd stop, so I will. I'll get a real job and I'll make honest money. I got myself tested recently and I'm clean. I won't have sex with anyone else but you. I promise."

I was taken a little aback by her forwardness, but then I realized that this was who she was. I sighed. "Jo, listen to me. It's not because of your work. I _do_ want you to stop because I care about you and I don't want you to get hurt, but that's because you're like a little sister to me. I can't have... I just can't imagine us taking it any further than that."

She hung her head, looking down at her bare feet and her bright blue toenails. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Jo. I wish I felt differently, but-"

"Maybe in a few years?" She raised her head again, hope shining in her eyes. "We'll both be older and I'll be more mature. Maybe then you'll think of me differently?"

I shook my head. "I just don't see it happening, Jo," I told her gently. I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't want to lead her on either. Giving her hope was the worst thing I could do right now, because it would hurt ten times worse in the future, after she wasted years waiting for me and I still felt the same way.

"It's not fair," she pouted. "I'm hot, aren't I?"

I chuckled, nodding my head. "Very."

She frowned. "You're not gay, are you?"

My eyes widened. "No, I-"

There was a loud knock on the bathroom door. "Come on, you two lovebirds," Dean's voice called jokingly. "Get out here so we can take another crack at getting the bitch to sing."

"Give us a second!" I called back. Then I cupped Jo's face in my hands and leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. "You're beautiful, Jo. One day soon some great guy is going to realize that and take you away from this life."

She scoffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "My very own Prince Charming? Yeah right. That's fairytale stuff."

I smiled. "If the evil stepparents exist, who's to say the Prince Charmings don't?"

"Whatever," she muttered, but I saw a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Come on," I said as I draped an arm around her shoulder, and we exited the bathroom together. The storage room's door was open and I left Jo in the main room as I went to see what progress Dean had made. As I approached I could hear Meg speaking, her voice immediately grating on my nerves.

"That's _all I know_," she stated firmly. "You're just wasting your time now."

"You're the one who's wasting time, seeing as you may not have much left," Dean replied. As I entered the small room I saw him empty his gun's clip, looking at the bullets before inserting them again.

Meg rolled her eyes. "Then just shoot me already," she said. "That's better than dying from boredom after being tied to this chair for so goddamn long."

Dean snorted. "No one dies from boredom, Meg."

"Just tell us where John is," I snapped.

Meg pierced me with a glare that was pretty intimidating coming from a woman tied to a chair. "How many times do I have to tell you dumb shits... _I don't know_."

"I think you do," Dean said, crouching in front of her so that they were on the same eye level. The hand he held his gun with was balanced casually on his knee. "I think you're protecting him."

Meg scoffed. "From what? _You_? A pair of chuckle heads with a gun? Please."

Dean smirked. "You know we plan to kill John. You also know we have the motivation and the skills to do it."

"You see, that's what I don't get," she said as she leaned her head to the side in a questioning expression. "_You_ may have the skills," she said to Dean, looking him straight in the eyes. "But what the fuck is your motivation?"

"John had my mom murdered," I spat, feeling the need to clarify why the bastard should die.

"Whoopy-fucking-doo," Meg sneered as she continued her stare down with Dean. "What's that got to do with Dean, here? It wasn't his mother."

"Maybe I don't like it when innocent women are slaughtered," Dean stated simply.

She laughed, the sound dry. "That's fucking hilarious coming from you. Such bullshit. Besides, Mary wasn't innocent at all. She was a fucking whore."

"Hey!" I yelled, but Dean raised a hand and I reigned in my anger.

"You love him, don't you?" he asked her, his voice not holding a tinge of spite or sarcasm or mockery. He stated it simply, like it was a fact, and I immediately saw the affect his words had on her. She turned rigid in the chair, her eyes rounding. But then she seemed to catch herself and her eyebrows cut downward in loathing.

"Go fuck yourself," she hissed. "You don't know shit. You don't even know who the fuck you are."

Dean rose to his feet and turned around, beckoning me to follow as he left the room. As I shut the door behind us I looked at him quizzically. "That's it? We got nothing from her."

"She isn't gonna tell us, Sam," Dean said, his voice slightly frustrated. "She's right. We're just wasting our time."

"She's not taking us seriously," I exclaimed angrily. "We have to show her we mean what we say, that we'll kill her if she refuses to answer."

Dean shook his head. "Maybe, but it might not work, and then we'll just have a dead body stinking up the place."

"Screw this," I sneered. "Give me that gun and I'll do it myself."

I held my palm out for the firearm, but Dean only looked at me. He raised his eyebrows. "You think you could actually do it?"

I was about to answer him when I suddenly realized that Jo was sitting on the couch, her arms resting on the back as she watched us, no doubt listening to our conversation. I faltered for a moment, and that was enough hesitation for Dean, who seemed to think he had received his answer. He swiftly walked away, heading towards the kitchen. "We've got to come up with another plan," he called over his shoulder. "Let's take a rest tonight."

I almost stomped the floor in frustration, but stopped myself from acting childish.

/

Almost a week passed where we all fell into a simple routine. I helped Dean clean and bandage his wound every day and I watched with satisfaction as it continued to heal. Jo and I spent most of our time in the loft. I was frustrated often, upset that we didn't have any plans regarding my stepfather. Dean had forbidden me to speak with Meg, locking the storage room door with a key he hid from me. Still, he didn't interrogate her himself, only opening the door once and a while to bring her food or to allow her to go to the washroom. Sometimes I'd hear her screaming when she was left alone, hurtling insults at us, but during those times Jo turned up the volume of the radio Dean had bought. Then she'd dance around the room and I was reminded of the days before my mom had died, when me, Jo, and Ash had hung out similarly at the shelter.

On the third night, Dean left the house when we were sleeping. I awoke at the sound of the front door closing and was going to follow him, but when he drove off in a black car I had never seen before and figured he'd bought some time ago, I gave up immediately. I had no money to pay for a cab, and there was not much of a chance I'd find one around the neighbourhood anyway, seeing as it was mainly buildings under renovation.

I awoke the next morning to find that Dean had already returned. When I questioned him about where he had gone he shrugged his shoulders and told me he had gone to take care of some business. Later that day I heard on the radio about the deaths of two New York police officers, one who went by the name of Carl Lenox, the man who I knew worked for my stepfather. Apparently they'd been involved in a car crash while pursuing an unidentified car. I knew Dean had been involved in some way, but he avoided a definite answer when I brought the subject up.

By the sixth day, I was furious. Not only was Dean keeping me out of the loop, but he didn't even have the decency to admit it to my face. It was like he was taking over for me. It was _my_ mom who we were avenging. It was _my_ stepfather we were planning to eliminate. I recalled Meg's question, about why it even mattered to Dean, and suddenly I was wondering the same thing. Why was he helping me? Why was he going through the trouble?

As I fumed on the couch I watched as Dean prepared a sandwich in the kitchen. Jo's legs were draped over my lap, her sleeping form clad in one of my shirts which swamped her small frame. The radio was blaring, drowning out Meg's screams of outrage, and I wondered how Jo could sleep with all the noise.

Slipping out from under her legs, I made my way to the bathroom, deciding to take a shower to calm myself down. The frustration building within me was ready to detonate, but I was afraid of how large the explosion would be. I was about to shut the door behind me when Dean pushed it open, doing the deed for me. He pinned me with his gaze. "You're angry, aren't you?"

"No, I'm fucking chipper," I snarled sarcastically as I began to remove my shirt. "Get out. I'm taking a shower."

"Sam, no one's talking. It's like John disappeared into thin air."

I glared at him. "Maybe if you let me help you we'd have better luck."

"It's too dangerous," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Didn't you tell me we were going to return fire with fire?" I asked, jabbing a finger at him. "What the fuck happened to that plan?" I began to remove my belt, my fingers fumbling with the device as I tried to keep my cool but failed miserably.

"Exactly," Dean said. "That's a _plan_. Right now, with no information, we'd be going in blind. When I said that, I meant only if we were prepared. We're not prepared, Sam."

I whipped the belt from my pants and threw it on the ground next to my shirt. "Why do you even care?" I enquired. "Why are you helping me? Why do you care if I'm in danger?" As I asked these questions I unbuttoned my pants, leaving me only in my boxers. I just wanted him to leave, because I really couldn't understand what he was thinking. It kept gnawing at me: why did he care?

He looked at me blankly. I didn't expect him to answer, but then he opened his mouth and spoke. "Because you're all I've got," he said, his voice quiet.

I looked at him and for a moment we were both silent, only the music in the background filling the space between us. "Once you get your memory back I won't be all you have," I stated, the anger unexpectedly ebbing away from my voice.

He shook his head slowly. "What if I don't get it back?"

"You will," I stated firmly, though I certainly didn't know for sure.

"What if I don't want it back?" he asked in an even quieter voice, and it was the first time I saw him look so lost. Even more so than the first time I had met him, when we had sat side by side on the beach and he had only been a stranger with amnesia.

"Why wouldn't you?"

He blinked once. Twice. He was hesitating, fighting something. And then in two quick strides he was in front of me, one hand holding the back of my head as he crushed his lips against mine. I could feel his chest press into me, almost make out his heartbeat, but then he was pushing me backwards and I stumbled as we entered the glass shower. He closed the door and then turned on the water, an icy cold stream immediately drenching my back. I yelped as I jumped forward, knocking into him, but then he swung me around and pressed me against the shower wall, shielding me from the cold water while joining our lips again.

I wondered why I wasn't resisting, but the thought was one amongst a thousand, all jumbled in my brain as I tried to grasp what was happening. Then I felt his tongue gently prod against my lips, begging for entrance, and all thoughts flew from my mind as I allowed him in. The water quickly turned hot and steam began to fill the shower as I tugged at Dean's shirt, trying to lift the soggy mess over his head. We parted for only a moment, but then he was back with me, my breaths coming in short gasps as his mouth demanded all of my attention.

At some point I realized I was only dressed in my boxers, and that fingers were beginning to pull the flimsy material away from my body. A while later, he stopped everything he was doing and shifted his head back, our lips parting. He looked down between us, at what I was doing, and I heard his breath shudder. Then his head was dropping next to mine, his damp hair tickling the side of my face. He groaned, and I felt his hot breath against my neck. Then his lips. His tongue.

"Screw me," I heard myself say. Dean froze and I said it again, this time emphasizing my words, repeating what he had said to me a week ago. Water streamed down our bodies in rivulets as steam billowed up around us. The air had become so muggy it was difficult to breathe, but Dean was making that hard to do already. As he slid his tongue along my jaw line I shifted my hands and gripped the sides of his arms.

"Are you sure?" he whispered into my ear, and I nodded my head, unable to speak. I wanted this. Then he was turning me around and pulling my hips away from the glass. I allowed myself to bend over, placing my hands against the shower wall. As I listened to him remove his drenched jeans I expected the glass to transform into a brick wall, but it never did. Not once did fear grip me.

Dean was being gentle, but I started to get impatient. The next time he moved his hips forward I pushed back and was rewarded with a grunt. He slammed his hand on the glass above me, as if his knees had suddenly gone weak and he had to catch himself before sinking to the shower tiles. "Sammy," he breathed. He sounded like he was in pain but I knew he felt the opposite. I tried to gain purchase on the wall with my hands as he continued, but they squeaked against the wet glass and it seemed Dean was the only one keeping me from falling to the ground. When it was over I felt his forehead on my shoulder and then his hands on my chest.

"I'll make you feel good," he whispered in my ear, and suddenly I couldn't breathe in the muggy air. I tried to gulp down oxygen but he was already spinning me around, pressing his lips against mine roughly. His tongue quickly slipped into my mouth, causing me to tremble in the heat. After a few minutes he broke away, stepping back and ceasing all contact between us. I felt my chest heave as I stared at him, barely supporting myself against the slippery shower wall. His eyes were hooded as he gazed back, but then they were trailing downwards. I suddenly realized just how exposed I was, but I didn't feel self-conscious, because Dean was returning his gaze to my eyes and I could see the lust that filled them. They were burning with something deep. Something that made my heartbeat quicken.

Then he was dropping to his knees. Before I knew what was happening, I threw my head back, each of his movements causing fireworks to explode behind my eyelids. It wasn't long before it was over. Then he was standing up and cupping my face in his hands. I was exhausted, but I smiled at him. He smiled back, a slight upturn of his lips, and then he was kissing me again. This time it was gentle and long, just are lips involved. It seemed as if we stayed like that for hours, but it was only seconds.

Because that's when everything went to hell.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII**

/

"_Can't stop my world from falling, from falling, from falling, from falling apart._"

- _Falling_, Alice in Videoland

/

Jo was screaming. There was the familiar sound of a gunshot and then the shattering of glass. Dean immediately broke away from me and within seconds he was running out of the bathroom, dripping wet and nude as the day he was born. I quickly followed, leaving the shower on as I grabbed a towel and threw it around my waist. When I entered the loft's main room I could hardly process what I was seeing.

The first thing I registered was Dean and Meg grappling on the couch. I would have found it funny, considering Dean was in his birthday suit and Meg was still dressed in her Midnight outfit, if it weren't for the gravity of the situation. Meg was screaming bloody murder as she tried to shove Dean off of her, and I saw that she held his gun in her hand, which he was trying to regain possession of.

Then I heard a cry over the music and Meg's shouts, and my eyes instinctively left the pair and drifted to the far side of the room. A part of the window had been shattered and Jo was sitting against the bare metal framing. Tears were pouring down her cheeks, her whole body shaking with sobs, and her hand was smothered in red where it clutched at her abdomen.

"I'm sorry," I thought I saw her lips mouth, repeated over and over again. "I'm so sorry." I began to walk forward, barely noticing Dean pistol whipping Meg across the face as I walked passed the couch. As soon as I dropped to my knees next to Jo I felt the urge to pull her close, to stop her tears like I had before, but I forced myself to assess the damage instead. It looked like she had been shot once. I didn't know how serious it was, but I knew she was losing blood fast by the puddle of red that was beginning to spread outwards from her small, damaged frame.

"I didn't mean to," she told me, her eyes wide and puffy as she stared up at me. "I didn't know she untied herself. I would have never brought the gun in the room if-" She coughed and a stream of blood ran down her chin. "I'm so sorry, Sam. She was saying such horrible things. I couldn't stand it. I just wanted to-"

I shushed her gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, Jo. Don't speak anymore. I'm going to get you some help. We need to get you to a hospital."

"You can't-" She coughed again, spilling more blood. "You can't bring paramedics here. They'll ask you questions."

"Who the fuck cares?" I snapped, suddenly angry at the dying girl. The music stopped and the room became deathly quiet, only the sound of Jo's shuddering breaths audible. "Dean," I called out, not looking behind me. "Call 911."

"Already on it," I heard him answer.

I took the towel from my waist and pressed it against her wound, the white material immediately turning a bright red. Jo let out a small, shaky laugh. "You're making me blush, Sam."

"That's funny, because your face looks as pale as a ghost," I shot back. "I thought I told you not to talk."

She leaned her head back against the window pane and closed her eyes, perhaps in an attempt to collect herself. A draft entered the room and played with the strands of her hair. Her tears seemed to have ebbed slightly, but I still wondered how much pain she was in. I wanted to take it all away from her. I wished I had never brought her here.

"Do you love him?" she asked suddenly, and for a moment I didn't understand who she was referring to. Then I realized she meant Dean, and I was struck by the absurdity of the question considering the situation.

"Save your energy," I told her, my hands now red with her blood. The towel had grown warm in the few minutes it had been pressed to her abdomen, and I clutched it tighter, trying to stanch the bullet wound. I glanced behind me and saw that Dean had put on a pair of jogging pants and was dragging an unconscious Meg to the front door.

"If Dean was a girl I'd probably be more jealous," Jo admitted, and I turned my head again to look at her, a thousand thoughts competing for my attention but Jo's words anchoring me to reality. She still had her eyes closed, thin blue veins visible through her lids. "I mean, I can't even compete now."

Her voice was becoming weaker, her words beginning to slur. I shushed her again, but she didn't seem to want to obey. "But I guess I can accept it," she said, almost sighing. "Anyway, that's pretty hot, two guys like you." Her eyelids opened slightly as she said, "Still, it's quite a loss for womankind. Not just you, but Dean too? So selfish." She smiled faintly and I felt the lump in my throat grow. Here she was, one hundred pounds with a bullet hole torn through her, and she was making jokes. How could she still smile?

"Why don't you ever listen to me?" I asked, my voice cracking. My vision was becoming blurry but somehow I held back the tears. I didn't want Jo to see them, not when she was trying to be so strong.

Her smile vanished as her eyebrows knitted together. "I was really going to stop, you know," she whispered. "I meant what I said. I was supposed to have a job interview a few days ago, but I... I couldn't make it. I was really going to stop."

I didn't like the way she was referring to everything in the past, like she wasn't still going to get the chance to find a decent job. Like she wasn't going to see tomorrow. A strand of blonde hair had fallen in front of her eye and I wanted to reach a hand out to tuck it back behind her ear, but I was afraid I'd smear it with blood.

"You still have to find your Prince Charming, Jo," I whispered, because I could barely speak now. I knew she would have scoffed if she hadn't been hit by another cough. I bit my bottom lip as I met her unfocused gaze. I knew she was running out of time, but just then I perceived the distant sound of sirens. I allowed hope to fill me as I heard Dean return to the loft.

"That's the ambulance, Jo," I said quietly. "They're coming to fix you. You're going to be alright."

Dean's footsteps stopped behind me. If the window had not been shattered I would have been able to see him in the reflection, but instead there was only inky blackness, penetrated by the few streetlamps lining the road and the distant lights of New York City's busier areas.

"Sammy, we've got to get out of here," I heard him say.

"What?" I asked, incredulous, as I whipped my head over my shoulder to glare at him.

"He's right," I heard Jo mumble, and my gaze softened as it returned to her. "You can't stay here."

"Meg's in the car. The ambulance will be here in minutes," Dean explained. "We stay here and we'll both be detained for questioning. We've got to go _now_."

I shook my head, watching as Jo's eyelids slid closed once more. "We can't just leave her here."

"Sam!" Dean raised his voice. "She's going to get help."

"What if John's people know about her?" I felt panic rise within me, constricting my throat even further. "Who's going to protect her?"

The sirens were louder now, almost at the front of the building. I clenched my teeth as I watched Jo's head slump to the side, trying to hold back the scream of frustration I wanted to release. I knew Dean was right, that we had to run away, but I couldn't get up and leave Jo here by herself. Not with a bullet wound and a puddle of blood surrounding her. She was so pale. So thin and small. So fragile. I remembered the night I had kissed her, how soft her lips had been. I couldn't smell cherries anymore, only the metallic tang of blood, and suddenly I wanted to kill Meg more than I wanted to take the life of my stepfather.

A hand gripped me roughly at the neck and shoved me away from Jo. I fell back, barely catching myself, and then my backpack was being thrown at me.

"Get dressed," Dean commanded as he took Jo's limp hand and placed it on the red towel, holding the material in place. I hesitated, looking at him in bewilderment, but then he pinned me with a glare and I found, for the first time, I was actually afraid of him. "Get. Dressed. Now," he repeated, his voice like the growl of a vicious animal.

I numbly did as I was told, throwing on a hoodie and a pair of jeans, and then I was following Dean out of the loft and into the unfinished hallway. I knew I'd always remember the image I left behind, of Jo's small body slumped against the broken window, all the red around her seeming even brighter against the paleness of her skin and hair. I knew it would haunt me for the rest of my life.

We left the door open, the light a signal for the paramedics whom I prayed were already on their way up. Then we were hurtling down the back stairs and into the dark parking lot. We swiftly entered Dean's car and avoided the flashing lights of the ambulance as we drove away. On the road, I glanced into the back seat but Meg was not there. "She's in the trunk," Dean explained, answering the question I had been about to ask. I settled into the seat and then did something bizarre. I reached up for my seatbelt. It was something I always did when I entered a car, but right now that simple, familiar motion seemed so out of place. It was too normal, too innocent. It didn't belong in this nightmare.

I let my hand drop back into my lap, but then I saw the blood that stained my fingers a deep red. My hands shook uncontrollably as I held them up, palms facing me. I slowly clenched them into fists. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dean glance at me. "We're gonna do this your way now," he announced. "Meg obviously isn't playing around, and neither are we. You were right. We've got to show her we're serious."

I didn't look at him but only stared straight ahead, watching as the road disappeared beneath the hood of the car. In this dark part of the city there were only warehouses and factories and no one around but squatters and drifters in the dead of night. But I barely registered this. My thoughts were somewhere else, in a part of my mind I had only recently begun to explore; where there was no sympathy or compassion, only the obsessive thought of revenge. That part of my mind had scared me once, but tonight I revelled in it.

After some time I felt the car slow down and realized we were turning into some sort of construction site. There were no lights, only the natural glow of the moon and the headlights of the car guiding us. Large pieces of machinery stood around us, their true forms cast into shadow and obscured by the darkness. Their bulky outlines reminded me of the monsters I had once believed in as a child, when I still thought evil had lurked beneath my bed. Now I knew what real monsters looked like. We had one locked up in the trunk.

When Dean cut the engine I heard Meg's muffled voice. She was screaming again, loud thuds reverberating throughout the car's metal frame as she banged around, unsuccessfully trying to escape. She was probably hoping someone would hear her and come to her rescue, but there would be no help arriving. There was no one here but us to hear her screams. I wanted to tell her she was wasting her breath, but I was silent as I reached for my door handle.

When Dean and I exited the car I walked to the front as Dean made his way to the back. I listened as he lifted the trunk lid and grabbed hold of the struggling Meg. They reappeared at the corner of the car, Dean dragging the kicking and screaming woman to where I was standing. He threw her roughly to the ground and she immediately scurried to her feet, trying to run away. A gunshot rang through the air and she fell in the dirt, now yelling in pain. Dean had blown a hole right through her ankle, and she clutched it as she stared up at us.

Her makeup had long ago been ruined and she almost looked comical now in the harsh glare of the headlights. Her red lipstick was smeared about her lips like a clown, and her mascara had smudged all around her eyes, resembling those of a raccoon. I briefly wondered what my stepfather would say if he was here now; if he would still feel the urge to screw her.

"You fucking asshole!" she screeched between gritted teeth, her crazed eyes focused on Dean. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

Dean seemed to find her threat amusing, because he let out a laugh as he pointed the gun at her head. Her face went slack as she stared down the barrel. She shuffled back in the dirt, as if the distance could protect her from a speeding bullet. Her black dress dragged in the filth but she didn't seem to notice, her focus solely on the mouth of the gun. "You're not going to shoot me. You don't have the guts," she said, but the fear in her eyes clearly stated that she knew otherwise.

"Tell us where John is," I said, my voice surprisingly calm. I would even say it sounded cold.

"I-I don't know," she stammered. She screamed and fell back as her shoulder was torn open by a second bullet. I looked at Dean. He stood calmly, reloading the smoking gun like he was at a firing range. He didn't raise it again, though, because he didn't have to. Meg was crying on the ground, black tears streaking across her face. "He's at the Realton's port," she sobbed. "Tonight. Midnight. There's supposed to be a big deal going down. That's all I know, I swear!"

"It's already ten to twelve," Dean announced. "If we didn't make it on time that would be pretty convenient for you. We wouldn't know if you were lying."

"I'm not!" Meg screamed, her voice full of pain.

I knew she was telling the truth this time. We had to finish this up quick, but I still had more questions. "Why did he do it?" I asked her. "Why did he have my mother killed?" Meg didn't answer, seeming to be too absorbed in her agony. The sobbing was getting annoying. I think I had preferred the shouting. Before Dean could stop me, I snatched the gun from his hand and dropped to one knee next to Meg. I grabbed a handful of her greasy blonde hair and pulled her head up, aiming the barrel of the gun beneath her chin. "Why the fuck did he do it?" I roared.

Meg was speechless for a moment, her voice catching in her throat, but then she calmed herself enough to say, "She knew things she wasn't supposed to."

"What things?"

"Stuff about his drug business. Stuff no one was supposed to know."

I heard the shuffle of feet and then Dean's hand was on my own, gently prying it away from Meg and slipping the gun from my fingers. I didn't resist, but for a moment I continued to stare at the woman, searching her eyes as if they could reveal the truth. Then I released her and stood up, taking a few steps back.

"Did you know?" Dean asked, standing above Meg with the gun hanging by his side. She didn't seem to understand the question, so he clarified. "Did you know the information that got Mary killed?

"Of course I did," Meg stated, clutching her bleeding shoulder. "John told me everything."

Dean nodded. He seemed to be contemplating something. "How did Mary find out?"

She hesitated, perhaps for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough to raise Dean's suspicions. "How the fuck am I supposed to know?" she demanded. "She was his wife. There's a number of ways she could have-"

"You're lying," Dean stated, levelling the gun at her head again.

Meg choked on the sentence she had been about to finish. "Because I wanted her dead, okay?" she suddenly sobbed, her tongue loosened by the sight of her own death. "I wanted John and she stood in my way, so I leaked her information she wasn't supposed to know. Information no one was supposed to know. Not even me." She sucked in a shaky breath and I stood there, dumfounded. "Please," she begged. "Please, call an ambulance. I told you everything. I'm going to bleed to death."

I shook my head slowly, unable to comprehend that this woman was the one who had caused my mom's murder. I was about to ask Dean for the gun, but before I got the chance I saw him drop the weapon to his side once more.

"Who killed her?" he asked. "Who was the one who actually carried out the assassination?"

Of course. Meg may have been the one who instigated it, and John was the one who had commanded it, but both were innocent of the actual deed. Neither seemed like the type to get their own hands dirty when they didn't have to. I knew then and there that I would find the one responsible and bring them to justice as well.

"You should know that better than I," she answered between gritted teeth. She was trying to get in control of her actions again, perhaps to save the last shred of dignity she still had.

Dean's brow furrowed. "Why would you say that?"

Meg actually smiled. Her teeth were smeared with red, and combined with the lipstick it seemed as if there was a huge gash stretching across her face. "I know why you went to see Vince," she said. "But don't worry, Dean. It's our little secret." Then she was laughing.

"Rot in hell, bitch," Dean stated calmly, and before I knew what was happening, he was aiming the gun between the woman's eyes.

"You're going to have to remember someda-" He pulled the trigger. As Meg's body jerked in the dirt, the back of her head blown out, I only felt one emotion. Satisfaction. I may not have pulled the trigger, but Meg had paid for her sins. Meg was dead, just as my mother was. In that one instant, justice felt damn good.

But the feeling only lasted for a moment, and then I was turning around and spilling my stomach's contents by my feet. I felt Dean's hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of his touch strangely comforted me as my body reacted naturally to the carnage I had just witnessed. It was like my body knew how to be humane while my mind was still catching up, trying to find the right emotions to go with the shaking of my body and the sick feeling in my stomach.

"It gets easier," I heard Dean say, and I wondered if he had gone through the same thing after he had shot Vince and his pal. I wondered what it must feel like to be the one who pulls the trigger instead of just the one who watches.

When my stomach finally had nothing left to offer, I straightened up and ran the back of my hand across my mouth. I felt like I'd just drunk two bottles of tequila and had then vomited it up. My head swam and I had trouble standing, but then Dean gripped my arms and steadied me as we walked back to the car. I sat in the back seat, mechanically reaching up for my seatbelt but stopping midway again. I let my hand drop back to my side as I looked out the window. Dean had gone back to Meg's corpse and was now dragging it to one of the holes that had been dug for the building's foundation. I watched as he kicked it in and then jumped down, disappearing from my sight. I figured he planned to lightly bury it, and in a couple of days it would vanish beneath a thick layer of cement, probably never to be found within our lifetimes. Especially since both our lifespans were not looking very lengthy at the moment.

Ten minutes later, Dean reappeared from the pit and walked back to the car, his clothes filthy with blood and dirt. When he slid into the driver's seat and shut the door, he remained still for a moment. I waited for him to say something, anything, but then he turned the key in the ignition and the car started up with a rumble. We left the construction site without a word, but we both knew where we were headed.

The next hour would see more death. I just hoped my stomach could handle it.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter XIII**

/

"_I know I'm not forgiven, but I hope that I'll be given some peace._"

- _This Night_, Black Lab

/

When we arrived at the Realton's port, the place was eerily quiet. The rows of large containers that filled the space created a maze of passageways, and we slowly made our way through the shadows on foot. When we had left Dean's car on the road the clock had read 12:30am. That meant half an hour had passed since the commencement of the deal. I could only hope we weren't too late, but a part of me still wished for it, afraid of finally confronting the man I had hated for most of my life. The man I had come here to kill.

"You think Meg was actually telling the truth?" I asked Dean as we stopped to peer around a corner. A stack of large containers towered above us, the tip of a crane dangling meters above our heads.

For a moment I didn't think he was going to answer because he simply didn't know, but then I spotted a dead body lying in the middle of the lane and I no longer needed a reply. He answered anyway, having spotted the body as well, and stated confidently, "I'm sure."

The deal my stepfather was involved in had obviously gone sour, and I double checked the surrounding area before running over to the figure. This was now the second time I had witnessed a messy corpse in less than an hour, but the anger burning through my veins like ice refused to allow me to examine how I felt about it. Instead, I searched the corpse's coat for a gun, and upon finding one, I straightened and showed it to Dean.

"Do you even know how to use one of those?" he asked, his voice sceptical.

"Sure." _Nope_.

The sound of a gunshot abruptly burst through the air, ricocheting off of the countless containers lining the row and causing me to jump. Silently agreeing that following the sound was both the worst and _only _plan we had, we did just that. The smell of gunpowder grew thicker in my nostrils as I followed Dean, suddenly catching sight of the harbour at the end of the row. We emerged from the metal labyrinth and before us was a large expanse of black. The concrete ground dropped away like the edge of a cliff, and if I could not hear the sloshing of water against the side or perceive the distant lights of buildings across the river, I would have believed that we had arrived at the edge of the world.

Movement to my right caught my eye, and as I glanced over I saw a figure exit a container that had been placed aside from the rest, near the edge of the port. It was only a shadow, but the outline was a familiar one.

John.

The man who had made the last few months of my life a living hell was exiting the rusty, red container, clutching one arm to his chest as a briefcase hung from his other hand. His movements were sharp and urgent but also slightly clumsy, as if he had been injured but still had the mind to keep up appearance. I heard him grumble angrily, perhaps to himself or to someone in the container, but I could not make out the words.

He walked a few steps in our direction, not noticing us where we stood, but then he looked up and I knew he had seen us even though I could not make out his eyes amongst the shadows hiding his face. He stopped immediately, black leather shoes scuffing against the pavement. He was only a few meters away from us, dressed in a dark suit. I raised my gun, trying not to let it show that I had never aimed it before. I knew he was not fooled though, because he let out a deep rumble I recognized as laughter.

I walked forward, keeping my arms held straight out in front of me. As I neared the man I could begin to make out his features. His dark hair was a mess, tufts sticking up in various directions, and his lip was split. I was disappointed but not surprised to find no alarmed expression imprinted on his face. In fact, he seemed to be paying me no attention at all.

"I don't believe it," he said, his lips twisting into a smirk that closely resembled a sneer. "They told me you were alive, but I really couldn't believe it unless I saw it with my own eyes. Yet here you are."

I was confused, because my stepfather wasn't speaking to me. His amazement was directed towards Dean, who stood a ways behind me. I wanted to turn my head, to read the expression on Dean's face, but I didn't dare remove my focus from John. The gun was a heavy weight in my hands and I was struggling just to keep my shaking arms aloft.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I snarled between gritted teeth. It was not what I had wanted to say, not the words I had imagined in my head over and over again as I thought of this meeting, but his lack of fear unnerved me, especially considering that he was defenseless at the moment. It seemed none of his employees were around, probably all of them dead or injured or fled, but still he did not seem threatened. I had the suspicion it was because it was _I_ who held the gun that was pointed at him, and he couldn't imagine I'd have the balls to pull the trigger. I wanted to prove him wrong.

John seemed to ignore the question I had asked, his expression shifting to one I was more familiar with. He was staring over my shoulder at Dean with the look he always got when I had talked back to him, just before he hit me. That look of superiority, like he was dealing with a disobedient dog that needed to be taught a lesson by a man who believed pain was the best teacher.

"I'd really like to know how you survived." My stepfather sounded almost conversational but there was anger in his tone. "I mean, I watched you plummet almost a hundred feet. You should be _dead_." He jabbed a finger forward to emphasize the last word.

What he was saying didn't make any sense, though. The words were not gibberish, but their context wasn't right. He was speaking to Dean as if he knew him. "Dean," I said, my voice wavering only slightly. "Check him. Make sure he doesn't have any weapons on him." I could feel Dean's eyes on me for a moment, but then there was the scuff of feet and he brushed passed me, walking steadily forward.

"Dean?" John repeated, and the name's owner stopped in his tracks. I saw his shoulders stiffen, like he had suddenly realized he was about to step on a rattlesnake nest. "You haven't gone by that name in a while."

I knew my bewilderment was showing clearly on my face, but I did not try to hide it. Instead, I stood silently as I watched the two men interact, my brain working at a rapid pace just to keep up with what was being revealed through their conversation.

"Do we know each other?" Dean asked evenly as he continued to walk forward, his voice carefully void of emotion.

John chuckled, letting his head drop to his chest as Dean walked behind him and out of his line of sight. "I suppose my sources were correct. You really do seem to have forgotten everything, or you're a better actor than I thought you were."

Dean began to pat him down and John did not resist, even spreading his arms outward. The briefcase was taken from his hand and opened. Stacks of bills dropped to the pavement, collecting in a messy heap at Dean's feet. I watched John's reaction, but the only movement I could discern was a slight twitch of his jaw. Dean allowed the briefcase to slip from his fingers, its fall cushioned by the pile of money. Then he joined me again, a few feet separating us from my stepfather.

John still did not look at me. "You never did care about money," he said, glancing at the empty briefcase and its spilled contents. "Business was never your specialty. I didn't even bother to have you learn its fundamentals." He looked at Dean, and there was something in his eyes I recognized. A familiar expression, one that was seen often on the faces of proud parents, but a warped and twisted version of it. "You were talented in other ways."

"Stop talking," I suddenly ordered, my hands shaking more fiercely now. I hated that my instability was so physically evident, but this was too strange. My stepfather couldn't possibly know Dean, yet he was addressing him as if they were old acquaintances. Luckily, my voice stayed strong. "I don't want you to talk to him."

John began to laugh, louder this time, appearing to finally acknowledge his stepson. "This is really quite fantastic, actually." He smiled at me, straight teeth beneath a sturdy nose, and I knew he was genuinely amused. He returned his attention to Dean, watching him thoughtfully. "Did you plan this all? I always knew you had a heart of stone, but this… This is almost poetic." He laughed again, slowly shaking his head. "Dean..." He pronounced the name slowly, as if he were contemplating its meaning. "A good choice. I always preferred your other name, though."

"I told you to shut up," I warned, raising the gun slightly higher. My muscles screamed with the effort but I managed to fight through the exhaustion, adrenaline coursing through my body. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears; taste the metallic twang of machinery in the air; smell the sweat on my skin.

"You have _no_ clue who this boy is, do you?" my stepfather asked me, his face revealing his genuine disbelief. "And neither does he, it seems." I was about to tell him to shut up a third time when he spoke again. "Sam, this is the man who killed your mother."

It took a moment for his words to unfurl into something I could actually comprehend. "What?"

"He probably would have told you himself, but I guess that fall of his scrambled his brains a bit."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I snarled. "If you're trying to save your sorry ass by making up outrageous lies like that, then you're stupider than I thought."

John smiled, the little grin unnerving me more then I would have liked. "How could I come up with such a lie? You call him Dean, but he didn't always go by that name. In my line of work, he was known as The Angel of Mercy, a nickname he picked up some time ago for the pure contradiction of it. He's worked for me almost all of his life, Sam."

It was the way he spoke, the raw confidence dripping off of his words that caused me to risk a glance at Dean. He was staring at John with an intensity I had never witnessed on his face before. I could see the muscles in his jaw twitch, his teeth clenched tightly behind pressed lips, and there was a deep crease between his eyebrows. I couldn't discern exactly what he was feeling, because his expression gave off a mixture of emotions: rage, grief, dread, alarm, surprise, hate. They were all there, all the feelings I had thought Dean was incapable of showing in such a pronounced way.

"Dean?" I called, the word quavering. My voice appeared to shock him out of some sort of state, because he jumped as he whipped his head around to stare at me, his face contorted with what looked like pure dread. "Dean?" I repeated, my voice rising with alarm. "What's going on?"

But I already knew. I could see it in his eyes as he spoke; as he blinked and the emotions vanished from his face. "I remember."

/

I stared at Sam, his face the only thing anchoring me to reality. I felt like my mind was about to drift off into space, because all of my memories had suddenly flooded back, like a giant title wave that swept up everything in its path, and I couldn't stop the torrent of new feelings that accompanied them.

My name had prompted the release. My _real _name. Mercy.

"You're pointing that gun at the wrong person, Sam." John's voice was now familiar, evoking both hate and dread, but I kept the emotions from my face. "I'm not your mother's killer." His words echoed in my head, awakening a memory that I had buried, many years ago, in the deepest trenches of my mind.

"_You must point that gun in the _right_ direction, Dean. Point it at your mother's killer, and then pull the trigger._"

Yes. I had been ten years old when my life had been moulded into the destructive disaster it was now; ten years old on the night I had become a killer.

"I know the anger you feel, Sam," John said in a soothing drawl. "I know how deeply it burns in you, but killing me will do nothing to stop it."

Sam's hands trembled as he glared at his stepfather. "I came here to kill you."

"You came here to kill the man who murdered your mother."

Me. Dean. No, Mercy. I had been assigned the job, and _I_ was the one who had broken into Sam's house.

_"Take this gun and shoot the man who took your mother's life." __John offered the sleek device with an encouraging nod, prompting Dean to take it in his tiny hands. The boy was shocked at first, but then he eagerly snatched the firearm from the man's grasp, nearly dropping it as he discovered that it was much heavier than he had first imagined. __He managed to raise it somewhat, levelling it at John's abdomen. His intent was to kill him where he stood. However, his forefinger refused to wrap around the trigger, and his arms began to shake uncontrollably until he was forced to let the gun drop to his side. __He couldn't do it. _

_His whole body began to tremble as he stood in the middle of the room, the weight of the gun threatening to drag him to the floor. He had been given the chance to avenge his mother, yet had discovered that he was a coward instead. A coward who was terrified of the gun he held._

"The man who murdered your mother is standing right beside you," I heard John say, but I wasn't focused on him. He was an old face, one I had known for all my life. I watched only Sam, the kid's eyes refusing to meet mine. I could tell he was holding back tears, and his glistening eyes were enough to make me wish that I had never pulled that first trigger. That I had never wished for vengeance.

Was that why I had felt such a need to help Sam? Why I had sympathized with him? Was it all because I had gone through something similar?

_There was a knock on the door. __Nearly dropping the gun in surprise, Dean jumped and spun around, watching with the wide eyes of a child as John approached the closed door. All Dean had to do was lift his arms again and shoot a bullet into the man's back, but John didn't seem concerned with the possibility of such an outcome. In fact, he was completely tranquil as he opened the door to greet his visitor._

_The guest was a bulky man with dark skin, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and piercing black eyes. Sporting a shaved head and a small goatee, he was the kind of person that didn't seem to smile often. Maybe not at all. Perhaps had never learnt to. __"You called me, boss?"_

_"Yes, yes. Come in, Gordon." John stepped aside as the large man entered the room, his wide shoulders passing through the doorway. He waited awkwardly by the entrance as John made his way back to his desk, perching on the end of it. Without taking his eyes off of the visitor, he stated, "_This_ is the man who killed your mother, Dean."_

_Gordon looked perplexed for a moment, but then seemed to notice the ten-year-old boy who was standing in the middle of the room with a pistol in his hands. He gave the kid an unimpressed glance before returning his stare to John._

_Dean felt a drop of sweat run down his temple. His mom's murderer had been wearing a mask, but he remembered clearly the way he had towered above him. The way he had taken up all the space in the room; a giant, dark shadow that blocked the doorway and the light that spilt from it._

_"What is this about, boss?" the man asked, a tinge of annoyance in his voice._

_John smiled wickedly. "This is your chance for true vengeance, Dean. Take it."_

Sam's eyes finally flickered towards me again, and my heart began to beat faster. Had it been something more than a shared past experience? Had I cared for him? Was this sensation, the tight clenching of my chest, what it felt like to care? It had been so long... Over the years I had been with dozens of women, some men too, but it had only always been just a physical thing. Never had I actually enjoyed those moments past the physical release, but with Sam... I felt something for Sam, but with or without my memories, I didn't know what.

Staring at him now, I tried to recall the emotions I had experienced with him. A number of images flickered before my eyes; Sam standing by the window in a badly lit motel room; his hands tracing the scars on my chest; his unconscious body lying in the sand with blue lips; his empty stare as he stood against a yellowing wall with blood on his shoelaces; his smile as he watched Jo dance; the fury in his eyes as he let his fist fly towards me; the sight of him pressed against a glass wall, bare and exposed but willing and at ease.

But then the images began to mix with less recent ones, those that had returned to me, causing the time I had spent with Sam seem like some sort of other life. Some stranger's life I was not familiar with, but somehow had the privilege to view. I saw an old man choking on the floor, trying to reach for the oxygen tank I held beneath my foot; a scared-shitless teenager falling from the roof of a twelve-storey apartment building, pushed by my hand; an endless number of people being torn apart by bullets, all varying in age and sex and location, but all sharing the same enemy: John. I remembered that I had felt nothing during those moments, but recalling them now was more painful than the time I had been caught near an exploding window and had received several glass shards in my chest.

I felt a drop of sweat run down my temple, immediately cooled by the breeze drifting over the water. Why did I care that Sam was looking at me with betrayal in his eyes?

"It's time to get revenge, Sam. It's time to make things _right_." John's voice was firm yet encouraging, just as it had been in that small, dank office. Just as it had been when he had convinced me to kill a man.

_"Shoot him." _

_Dean raised the gun, his arms stronger now. _

_"Whoa. Wait a second." Gordon stumbled slightly backwards, holding his hands outwards as he peered nervously at the gun that was now pointed in his direction. He glanced at John. "Boss, what is this?"_

_John ignored the man. "Shoot him, Dean. Get revenge."_

_Gordon's eyes were wide with alarm as he realized that his life was in the hands of a ten-year-old. That's right, because Dean had not asked this man to barge into his home and kill his mom, but the past could not be changed, and he wanted to set things right. There was only one way he could. A life for a life. _

_"This is a joke, right boss?" Gordon's voice shook with nervous laughter. "Who the hell is this kid?"_

_Dean felt his forefinger slip onto the trigger, the metal cool against his skin. He ignored the burn in his muscles as he stared at his mom's killer. He narrowed his eyes, rage bubbling through his veins, sweat pouring from his skin and his heart pumping furiously in his chest._

_One. Two. Three. The rebound of the gun sent pain rippling up his arms, causing his last shot to fly wide and put a hole in the wall. He dropped the pistol, the heavy device clanking to the wooden floor just as Gordon's body crashed to the ground in a massive heap._

_Dean simply stood there, chest heaving in and out as he found he couldn't suck in enough air. His throat felt closed off, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the still figure lying awkwardly in front of him. A pool of red liquid was beginning to gather around the slumped body, seeping outwards towards him, and even though the large man's eyes were wide open, he did not see. __He was dead._

"Kill him," John hissed, his patience clearly thinning.

I watched with dismay as the gun swung towards me. Sam's face was contorted with anger now. "Tell me the truth, Dean," he ordered. "Tell me he's lying."

But I couldn't, because what John had said was the truth. I remembered who I was now. Of course I remembered. It was strange to think that I had ever forgotten.

_Dean remembered John was still in the room when he felt the man's heavy hand on his shoulder. John looked at the giant mess on his office floor. "_Who the hell is this kid_?" he mocked the corpse, his voice deepening in anger. "He's my son." _

I wasn't Dean. I was John's son. I was his human trigger. I was the Angel of Mercy. I used to know that. I used to know that I would kill anyone if asked to; slaughter them without thought or hesitation as they lay in their beds or went about their daily tasks or sat on their toilet seats. I had held that reputation, perhaps not proudly, but not ashamed of it either. I had inked it into my back, as a reminder not just to myself but to everyone else as well. People had feared me.

The Angel of Mercy. What a contradiction. I had never shown mercy. I had never felt compassion or sympathy. Not for my victims, not for their families. It didn't matter why my targets were required to die, just that they had been ordered to. I was the gun attached to my boss's forefinger; my father's. The barrel was aimed, the trigger was pulled, the body dropped, and even though I was the cause of suffering and pain and grief, the sun still rose the next day.

Death had never bothered me after the day I had first encountered it. Not any more than a gun cared about the gory mess it left behind. After a while, every victim's face looked the same to me anyway. That was what I had always found ironic. People always seemed to think they were different from others, but everyone was equal in death. Death gave mercy to no one, so I didn't see why I had to either. I would do what I was there to do and leave with no remorse or guilt or thoughts of escape, because I had stopped caring a long time ago. In and out and nothing but a myth to those who witnessed my fleeing shadow. I was only a name to all of those except for John. Only my father had known I was human. To all others I was the Angel of Mercy, the one who came when your time was up, when John wanted you dead.

But that night, it had all happened differently. I was supposed to kill her, and I had planned to. John had given me the mission a day in advance and had told me to make it look like a suicide. I broke into the target's house in the dead of night, and I thought that it was going to be easy, just like all the others had, but the woman... Sam's mother...

Mary was different. I remember watching from the window as she spoke with Sam, sitting on the edge of his bed. I couldn't hear their conversation but the way she looked at him reminded me of my own mother. I had not thought of her for many years, but a sudden image of her appeared before me then. She had smiled just like Mary had, the night she had tucked me in for the last time. "Angels are watching over you," she had whispered to me, just like she did every night. I wondered, staring at Mary and her son, if I was one of those angels now. I had wings. I watched over people. I watched them and then I found the best ways to kill them, whether it be made to look like an accident or to stand as a terrifying example to others.

Mary wasn't sleeping in her bed like she was supposed to be. She was sitting on the windowsill when I entered her room, looking up at the moon, and I could still remember her eyes when she turned to look at me. They were so big and round, just like Sam's, and they held no fear. It was like she had been expecting me. She had been expecting death.

It was the first time I had hesitated; the first time I realized I was not indifferent; that I didn't want to destroy this beautiful creature before me; that it was not John's finger on the trigger, but my own.

_His hand shook, and that surprised him. It was a new feeling. Uncertainty had never been a problem in the past. His hands never shook, but the woman was staring at him. She was silent, the soft glow of the moon casting her face in gentle shadows that caressed her fragile features. She was watching him; not the knife in his hand, but _him_. She didn't look upset, afraid, or even angry. She looked… sad. And that's when he knew that he couldn't kill her. That's when he refused to be John's trigger._

_He felt a presence behind him, and then Bobby was beside him. "Boss wants to see you," the man announced, slipping on a pair of black gloves as he spoke. "He has another job that needs to be done immediately. I'll finish up here. She'll go quietly." _

_Dean didn't take his eyes from the woman as she looked at Bobby. Tears ran freely down her face now, but her lips never parted to let out a scream or to even speak. She did not plea for her life like so many before her had. Dean felt like he couldn't breathe. Then Bobby was pushing him back, giving him a strange glance. "I said John wants to see you. Get your ass out of here."_

_Dean took a step back, his mind telling him to obey but something stopping him. Then he heard Mary speak for the first time, her voice soft and quiet. "Bobby, just promise me one thing. Keep Sam safe. Don't let John hurt him."_

_"I can't promise that, Mary," Bobby answered, shaking his head. There was something akin to remorse in his voice, but then he was grabbing the woman and running a knife across her throat. Dean stared in horror as Bobby slowly lowered the woman to the floor, her body convulsing, and placed the knife in her open palm. _

_Somehow, Dean summoned the strength to turn away._

I wasn't staring at the gun. I was looking into the eyes of the person who held it, and Sam was looking back.

"I'm sorry," I said, and Sam's eyes widened.

"You're… You're sorry?" His voice was full of disgust, hatred, and betrayal. "You're _sorry_?"

It was all I could say as I waited for Sam to pull the trigger. I even wished he would, because the look on his face made me want to die. A movement to the right caught my attention. John, almost forgotten in the moment, was charging forward, reaching for Sam. Before I could stop him, he had already twisted Sam's arm and taken the gun. With one arm wrapped around the kid's neck and a hand holding the gun to his temple, John leered at me.

"Drop the gun, _Dean_," he said, and I was somewhat relieved to find that my instincts had not let me down. I had quickly removed my own weapon and was aiming it at John. The only problem was, my father was using Sam as a shield, and I knew he was no fool. He knew me better than anyone. He was the one who had taught me all I knew; the one who had trained me to be the killer I was.

My mind was quickly calculating all of the outcomes that awaited the actions I could take, but then John's eyebrows rose, as if he had thought of something that surprised even himself. "On second thought, why don't you give the gun to Sam?" he said.

I stared at him, trying not to express any emotions, but I knew I could not win against my father. The man had always been a step before me. That was why I had ended up here; why I had lost my memories and almost my life. That day, John had known I was going to betray him even before I had.

I let my gun drop and I saw Sam's eyes widen as he struggled against John's grip. "What the fuck are you doing?" he gasped, but then John was shoving him forward, the gun still trained at his head. I handed the weapon out for Sam to take, grip first. He stared at the device and then up at me, not comprehending.

"You want to kill me, don't you?" I heard myself ask, like my voice was coming from someplace far away. I was strangely calm, knowing I deserved it; accepting that it was my time to finally join all of those I had sent across the abyss; to finally find what lies on the other side of the impenetrable surface. "Now's your chance, Sam. Shoot me."

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter XIV**

/

"_I'll be a killer whale when I grow up. I'll be a monster_."

- _Orca_, Wintersleep

/

I watched as my hand reached forward and my fingers wrapped around the sleek grip of the gun. As Dean let go, the weapon became solely my responsibility, but I no longer felt the object was physically heavy. It was what the gun meant that weighed me down. Dean was asking me to kill him. He was giving up, submitting to his punishment, and that only meant one thing. John wasn't lying. Dean had killed my mother.

My arm did not shake as I directed the barrel of the gun at Dean's chest. I took a slow step backwards, my sneakers grating across the concrete, the noise intolerably loud in the sudden stillness. In the back of my mind I knew my stepfather was still close, that he had a gun pointed at my head, but at that moment it was only me and Dean.

My gaze did not leave his face. It held no expression; no emotion could be discerned amongst his lips, eyes, brow, or nose. He had just admitted he was the one who had slit my mom's throat, yet he seemed to feel no remorse. It was the same look I had witnessed on his face when he had blown Meg's head apart. It was the look of a killer who had done the deed before. He wasn't Dean anymore. He was someone else. Something else. I marvelled at how things had changed so quickly.

"I told myself I'd kill you," I managed to squeeze past my raw throat, taking another step back. "I promised to get revenge on those who hurt her."

"I know," Dean replied, standing still. I was ready for a flash of movement, a last-second decision to save his life, but he remained motionless. Only his eyes shifted, following me as I widened the distance between us. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

I stopped at the sound of my nickname. My first reaction was anger, amazement that he should utter that name now. But then I was transported back to all the times he had used it.

In the alleyway behind the club, I had told him I didn't want him to die. _Jesus Christ, Sammy..._

In the motel room, he had understood for the first time why I had jumped from the train. _I know, Sammy. I know now._

On the yellow sticky note he had left in the motel room the morning after. _Sammy,_ _Have fun feeling like crap._

With blood on my shoelaces, I had told him I was done with him. _Maybe I'll see you around, Sammy._

After he had tried to help me regain my sanity. _You're not as strong as you think you are, Sammy._

In the shower, when nothing had separated our bodies. _Sammy..._

In the loft, with Jo bleeding out in front of me. _Sammy, we've got to get out of here._

Now he was apologizing, but there was no way to tell if his words held anything real. _I'm sorry, Sammy._

I searched his eyes. I wasn't quite sure what I was looking for in those empty pits. Perhaps something that told me he meant it, that he truly was sorry. He had once worried about regaining his memories, asking me what would happen if they weren't good ones. I supposed the finger I held on the trigger of the gun was my answer.

The black ink on my inner wrist caught my attention for a moment. I looked at the Chinese character tattooed on my skin and almost laughed. What a fucking coincidence. I recalled the reason I had decided to get it. My mom and I had been sitting at dinner with my stepfather. No one was speaking and no one was eating because it was the day after my mom had been discharged from the hospital. The day after my half-brother had been born without a heartbeat. I had wanted to know what they would have called him. "Mercy," my mom had replied, her voice clear and calm. "I always thought that Mercy would have made a nice name." John had immediately pushed his chair back before leaving the room. He didn't return to the house for a month, which I had considered a blessing. So I had gotten the tattoo in memory of my lost brother. Now I wondered why my mom had said that.

"Did she suffer?" My voice was barely above a whisper, my throat blocked by a lump I couldn't swallow. My vision began to blur but I didn't dare blink to clear them. It wasn't enough to hear Dean's answer; I needed to see him while he spoke. I needed to be sure he wasn't lying.

But Dean didn't reply, and that's when I realized his eyes weren't empty. My question seemed to break something inside of him, and for a moment I saw that there was desolation behind those green walls. In some ways, that was so much worse than the illusion of emptiness. I knew he didn't have the right to feel misery; he had not lost everything like I had.

But in that moment I knew I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger. I felt the rage inside of me leak away, leaving behind a void I couldn't fill quickly enough. I was empty. As I lowered my arm, the look on Dean's face was almost laughable. It was the first time I had seen him look dumbfounded. It didn't suit him, and despite the situation, I almost let out an amused huff.

"Why?" was all he asked, and I could tell he truly didn't know.

I swallowed before answering. "A life for a life." Even if this was the man who had taken my mom's life, he had also saved mine. That's what I told myself as I replied, but I knew it wasn't the real reason why I couldn't kill him. Dean frowned, and suddenly the anguish was rising to the surface, distorting his expression. I saw his hands clench into fists by his side. It was strange, because he almost looked disappointed.

I heard John scoff from behind me. "You're both pathetic," he sneered. "Shoot him, Sam, or else I'll put a bullet in your head."

"You're just going to kill me anyway," I called behind me, my tone composed. "You've tried before." At this point I didn't really care if he shattered my skull with a bullet. I couldn't even kill the man who had taken my mom's life. I was a fucking coward.

John let out a deep, empty chuckle. He seemed to realize I had given up. "I just wanted to give you the chance to get revenge before you died, but I see you don't have the balls. No surprise, really."

I shifted my head to the side, gaining sight of John in my peripheral vision. "Did you ever love her?" I asked him, my voice surprisingly soft. I was remembering my mom as she kissed my forehead goodnight the day she was murdered, her bright hair falling across my cheek.

John seemed to wince at the question, but the reaction only lasted a moment. He smirked. "More than you'd ever know."

Everything after that happened in mere seconds. I saw John's gun move swiftly upwards and Dean almost simultaneously launch towards me. My body reacted automatically, my hand rising. There was a loud _bang_, and then we were hitting the floor. I didn't know whose gun had gone off, mine or John's. Maybe both had, I didn't care. My mind was clouded with confusion. I faintly wondered if I had been shot.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." I heard Dean whisper, and I couldn't breathe. I heard footsteps and pictured my stepfather running away, but I was unable to move. The air had been knocked from my lungs and I struggled to expand them, my throat making a strange gasping sound as it refused to suck down oxygen. "I didn't save her, Sam," Dean said weakly, his lips beside my ear. "I couldn't save you..."

Suddenly becoming aware again of the heavy object clutched in my hand, I noticed that the metal was warm. The ringing in my ears was just beginning to dim as tiny tendrils of sensation began to return to my body. The pressure bearing down on top of me was abruptly removed as Dean rose to his hands and knees. I looked up at him, into green eyes flecked with gold, and felt… nothing.

"I have to honour her request," Dean said in a hoarse voice, talking more to himself than to me. "I have to finish what I started."

I watched, lying frozen on the cold concrete, as the man stood up. "What are you going to do?" I enquired, my voice remarkably calm.

He glanced down at me, his mouth slightly open, his expression serious. "I'm going to do what that fucking kid couldn't do eleven years ago."

I eyed him warily, still unmoving, wondering what he was talking about. Wondering what had happened to the hatred that had filled my thoughts just moments ago. It had disappeared, along with every other human emotion I should be feeling. Everything was just… numb. Like it had been when I was drowning in the lake.

"I wish I could have chosen a better ending," Dean said, the sadness returning to his face, but then it was gone and so was he. I lay on the pavement for what felt like an eternity afterwards, and the entire time, the only thing that I could think of was the gold flecks in Dean's eyes. I imagined them growing and brightening, becoming his eyes and then transforming into two golden orbs that burned like the sun. I found myself squinting at their brilliance, but I did not cover my face from their burning gaze.

/

John was somewhere aboard the large, rusting boat that stood at the edge of the port. The ship was half submerged in water, one side sinking into the polluted river. It had long ago become a safety hazard, but I approached it confidently, half wishing that the contraption would collapse as long as John was within it. I didn't care if it broke apart beneath my feet as well.

I made my way to a ladder at the far corner. Climbing the rungs was difficult, the pain in my side burning through my entire body like liquid fire. I knew the bullet had buried itself deep and that every movement I made probably pushed it further, closer to an artery or an important organ, but I had no time to assess the damage. I couldn't even spare a hand to press against the wound in a hope to staunch the bleeding because I needed both arms to pull myself up the ladder. White knuckles appeared as I gripped the rusty railings and fought the scream rising in my throat, dragging myself upwards another few inches.

I finally hauled my body over the railing, collapsing in a heap on the ship's deck. The floor was a rusty red, recalling the familiar image of dried blood. It looked as if the entire deck had been smeared with the stuff. Tugging at the railing, I managed to get to my feet, taking a look around the ship. The boat reminded me of the decaying skeleton of a carcass. This place had once been important, the site of great transactions. Busy men had rushed across its surface as supplies had been shipped in and out. Now the place was a dump, ready for demolition but left to rot here like a forgotten memory. Not destroyed but neither allowed to carry out the purpose it had been intended to. Abandoned.

John appeared across the deck, emerging from the shadows like some sort of supernatural being. His presence was a mere silhouette in the cloudy night. As he walked towards me I discerned that his arms were crossed before his chest, his eyes watching me with a serious gaze. I had seen that look numerous times before during my training, when he had assessed my skills, always finding them lacking, always telling me to improve.

"Mercy," the man called as a welcome. "My son. Did you come here to kill me too?"

I stared at him, realizing now that I did not consider John to be my father. A genealogist would claim otherwise, but as far as I was concerned, I was an orphan. In my father's place stood a superior; the person who had given me orders which I had always obeyed without hesitation. That was John, nothing more than my boss. Perhaps once it had been different, or I had wished it to be, but now I felt nothing towards the man. Nothing that a son should feel.

I stumbled closer. John's head tilted to the side as he followed my clumsy movements, seeming to realize that no verbal reply would be forthcoming. We both knew the answer to the question he had asked. Had I come here to kill him? Yes. But why now? Why not before, when John had given me the gun himself?

"I never asked you why," John's voice snapped me back, pushing aside my cluttered thoughts. "You never once stepped out of line. You obeyed all my orders. You never showed an _ounce_ of emotion, even when you were taking a life. But then you went behind my back and-" He stopped midsentence, as if he couldn't bare to finish what he was saying.

I swallowed the blood rising in my throat, fighting off a wave of exhaustion. He had hugged me. John had hugged me for the very first time on the day that was to be my last, up on the cliff's edge where he had called me for a 'briefing'. Those arms around me had been like a floodgate opening inside of me. I had not understood the emotion then, I still didn't, but for that one, brief moment I had felt something; perhaps it was what all children felt when they were hugged by their parents. Maybe it was what had stopped me from shooting the man all those years ago.

But then John had broken away, and at the moment my guard was down he had slammed a fist into my stomach. I had doubled over, trying to get a grip on myself, but before I realized what was happening, while I was still gasping for breath, he had shoved me back. Over the railing and past the cliff's edge. Falling, falling, falling. It was just as Sam had described it. It was terrifying. Looking back now, it was probably a miracle that I had survived, but I didn't feel blessed at all. I felt like I should have died that day. Just like I should have died today.

"Why did you care for the life of a silly boy?"

My body stiffened. I had asked myself that question countless times before, though I didn't know 'care' had been the correct word back then. Why had I taken it upon myself to honour Mary's last request when it hadn't been given to me? I had known John was going to order Sam's death, that it was only a matter of days before Mary's son was killed as well.

"You didn't even know the brat," John spat. "He wasn't even your job because he wasn't worth sending my best."

I gritted my teeth. Even without my memories I had known I was connected to Sam somehow. I never told Sam that _he_ was the kid I had come to the shelter to seek out, that it was my fault Vince had taken an interest in him afterwards. John had known what I was planning before I had even planned it. He knew I intended to save Sam, and being a cautious man, he had made the decision to eliminate me. Apparently it had been the hardest decision he had ever made, or so he said just before pushing me over the cliff's edge.

"Why did you do this to me?" I heard myself ask, and I was surprised by the pleading in my voice. I needed to know why he had turned me into what I was.

"I didn't do this to you, Dean," John said, looking at me solemnly. "I only gave you an opportunity. You were the one who decided to kill and then have some sort of epiphany about the whole thing." He passed a large hand down his face, letting out an exhausted groan. "Now I have to clean this whole mess up."

"You ordered me to kill all those people."

John stared at me in silence for a moment but then seemed to grow angry. "And you're the victim now? You keep clinging to the idea that none of this is your fault, but who was the one who pulled that trigger over and over again? Who was the one who watched death approach with nothing but a blank stare? It was _you_ Dean. You're a killer. The best I had. All those times you could have taken your finger off the trigger. You didn't even have to pick up the gun. But you did, time after time, because you didn't give a fuck."

"I was your son," I whispered, but he didn't seem to hear me.

"You think just because you made a new friend that your life is worth something more?" he continued. "You're wrong Dean, because that boy out there _hates_ you now. He despises you because he knows who you are. _What_ you are."

It was true. I was nothing but a weapon. With no will of my own, I had allowed myself to become something with no morals, no principles. An empty shell trained to kill. An image of Sam's face suddenly appeared in my mind. I remembered watching him as he stared at me across the shower spray. How he had looked with his hair wet and his chest heaving and no barrier between us. But it was only a flash of a thought, and then I was back on the boat with a bullet buried in my gut and John watching me with that fucking look. How I wished I could lose my memories again. Not the old ones, but the new ones. Nothing was worth this guilt.

As if on cue, I felt the sting of pain tear through my side again. Instinctively placing a hand over the area, blood seeped through my fingers, the liquid warm and sticky. The pain throbbed again and a wave of exhaustion rolled through me, but I remained standing, prepared to see this through to the end.

"But here's the funny thing," John said, holding up the weapon he held as he looked at my wound. "This gun is empty. Has been since I took it from Sam. So why are you bleeding, Dean?"

I choked as I tried to swallow the blood filling my mouth, but it spilled past my lips and I doubled over, coughing. Not shot by my father's bullet, but by Sam's. The irony was not lost on me.

"You never loved me, did you?" I whispered, staring at the ground and the blood splattered across it.

His reply came after a long pause. "I did, Dean. Once. Until she killed him because of you."

I looked up, not comprehending. John was staring down at me with the softest expression I had ever seen imprinted on his face. The sharp edges that always lined his features were barely visible now.

"His name was going to be Adam. I had picked it out myself. He was going to be our son. Only mine and Mary's." He shook his head, a faint, sad smile on his lips. I realized the softness in his expression was not directed towards me, but some past memory or dream he was recollecting in his mind. Then I watched as the sharp lines returned, bracketing his mouth and appearing between his eyes in a scowl. "But then she discovered you. She saw the monster you were and was afraid our son would become the same thing. So she killed him before he even had the chance to live." John almost choked on his next words. It was the first time I had ever seen him display grief. "He died because of you, Dean. You murdered my son."

I straightened my back, my head swimming as pain ripped through my abdomen. A sudden rage gripped my mind. For the first time I couldn't stand how fucked up the world was. I had accepted it before, never questioning the depravity man could sink to, believing it was all there was. But now that I knew there were decent people in this world, I couldn't take the stench of all the shit that surrounded me any longer. John was blaming me for the death of his son, for a baby I had never known existed, and suddenly I felt it was all too unfair.

"You killed your own fucking son," I stated. 'You killed both of them." I rushed at him, not caring that he held a gun or that my body was uncoordinated. He didn't flinch, and as I brought my fist back to send a blow to his head, I knew this was one murder I would never regret.

I felt a second stab of pain, this time in my back, as another bullet ripped through me. My body jolted forward a few inches, stopping my arm before it came crashing down on John's skull. John did not jump at the sound of the gunshot, as if he had been expecting it, and then I was turning my head to look behind me, ignoring the pain that threatened to blind me. I was prepared to see Sam with a smoking gun in his hands, but I was surprised to see a woman dressed in an officer's outfit standing on the deck a few feet away instead. I recognized her face just before my body lost all sensation and I collapsed to the ground.

It was the fucking shrink.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued<strong>.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter XV**

/

"_Despite this cruel world and all my best efforts,_

_You surprise me with just how perfect you are_."

- _Honeythief_, Halou

/

I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of one of the large cargo containers. A short pause, my head hanging between my shoulders, and then I was sliding my feet forward again. I didn't look where I was going. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything.

_Dean_.

There was nothing left. My life had been torn apart in a matter of weeks, and now there was no reason to clutch the pieces to my chest any longer. I would throw them up into the air where they would be scattered by the wind, never to return again. Yeah... Just like ashes.

I took another lurch forward, the only thing keeping me from collapsing to the ground being the metal container I struggled alongside. I could barely feel my legs, for the deep numbness that had encased my body was still seeping into my mind, offering to consume the torrent of emotions I knew resided there. I wanted to let it. I wanted to continue to feel nothing, an absolute lack of sensation and thought, but something stopped me.

_Dean._

Dean was calling my name. Yes, I could hear it. My name in a whisper, on a breath, drifting to my ears. Slowly raising my head, I expected to see the man who had betrayed me. The man who had saved my life only to tear it down with his own murderous hands. The one person I had fully let into my life, and who had left it as nothing but a heap of torn tragedies.

"Sam…" The name was nearly a strangled cough and it came from somewhere in front of me, the source hidden in the shadows.

"Dean?" I called, the name on my lips like a slap to the face. No, it was Mercy now. It always had been. As a stinging evolved at the back of my nose, I scattered the images of angel wings from my mind.

There was no response, and I managed to walk unsteadily forward until I became aware of a deep, laborious breathing. There was a figure sitting in the darkness; a large shape that leaned its back against the container with legs stretched out in front. It was a man, his body motionless but for a slow rising of the chest.

"Who's there?" I demanded, suddenly becoming aware of several other figures lying in the shadows, all of them as still as death.

The man coughed, a sickly, wet sound that racked his entire body. "Sam, I… I'm glad you're here. I need to tell you something." His voice was mostly gravel and choked with pain, but I recognized it now. I should have run in the opposite direction, but the confusion swirling in my mind made it difficult for me to experience fear. Besides, the man didn't sound like he was much of a threat anymore.

I leaned back on the container, tilting my head against the cool metal, and closed my eyes. "What is it?" I barely managed to ask.

There was another shuddering inhale. "I didn't want any of this. I didn't mean to-" Another coughing fit. "I didn't mean to cause any of this."

Tears began to well, slipping past my eyelids, briefly caught by my lashes before sliding down my face. "Cause what, Bobby?"

"I didn't want to kill her," he said. "She had always been so good to me. But John... John had ordered it and-"

I opened my eyes. "What?"

"Someone else was supposed to kill Mary. Your mother... Mercy-" Bobby began to cough again, probably choking on his own blood. I could discern the tiny bullet holes that littered the sides of the containers now. A war had taken place here. Bobby continued, his voice considerably weaker and his breathing heavier. "John, he… he had sent his best for her, but then… there was a change of plans and... So he sent… he sent me to take care of her instead. He wanted to test me... my loyalty."

I quickly knelt down, staring at the man with earnest eyes. I could see him clearly now, the blood on his face like black ink in the darkness. "Wait a second. Bobby, what are you saying?"

"I'm so… so sorry, Sam… Please… Please forgive… me… I… didn't… I didn't... want…" His thought unfinished, Bobby's head slumped to the side, never to rise again by its own will. Tears fell faster, blurring my vision until my surroundings became nothing but a mixture of indistinct images. I knew that most of the salty tears were generated by frustration. Frustration directed towards Bobby and the fact that I couldn't bring justice to a dead man, but also towards Dean and his fucking idiocy. Why had he not told me that Bobby was the one who had done the actual deed? Why had he allowed me to blame him instead?

I fell backwards, pushing myself away from the carnage and the smell of death that now threatened to smother me.

_Dean_.

I needed to go to him. I needed to sort this all out. I needed to ask him who the fuck he was.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I rose onto legs that were now made strong with purpose. I took off in the direction I had last seen Dean headed in, leaving behind all of my anger and resentment, laying them down beside the dead man they belonged to but would never touch.

\

"Shit!" a woman cursed. I could hear her walking across the deck, echoes reverberating through my skull with each footstep. My cheek was pressed against cool metal, my legs having lost the ability to support the rest of my body's weight. I knew I had fallen to the floor, but for a moment I couldn't remember why. All I was aware of was the reverberations warning me that someone was coming closer and John's feet standing before me, clad in black leather shoes and poking out from beneath pressed pants.

Then I recalled what had happened. The shrink, the one who had been at the shelter, had shot me. My mind began to immediately search for reasons why; an explanation. I remembered seeing her several times at the shelter, but never had I spoken to her. She had given me a strange look once or twice, but that was all I could recall of our interaction together.

I soon remembered her, though. Her face appeared amongst a sea of people I had damaged in one way or another. I recalled kidnapping her husband and holding a knife to his throat as she pleaded with John to spare his life. I recollected the calm composure that had taken over her features when she had agreed to aid John with his 'business'. She was a police officer, one of the few who weren't dirty cops. Bribing had not been an option when it had come to winning her over, so John had decided to have her husband threatened instead, and I had been the one to do the threatening.

"Did I fucking tell you to shoot him?" John demanded to know as Ellen finally reached us, standing just behind me. His voice was low with anger.

"I thought he had a weapon. He was about to strike you."

John sneered as he crouched down, his face becoming visible in my diminishing field of sight. He looked me over once, a frown distorting his features. "He wouldn't have done any damage," he mumbled.

"John, when is this going to end? Just tell me where William is. I've done everything you've ordered."

"It isn't over yet," he stated firmly, glaring up at her. "There's still the pick-up. You make sure I get on that boat safely, _then_ I'll tell you where your husband is."

Ellen's voice grew irritated. "I've already done more than-"

"There's a pile of money lying at the edge of the port. My money. Go collect it for me."

"John, I-"

He stood up abruptly. "Today has not been a great day for me, Ellen, and I don't like to repeat myself. Go and collect the money or I'll make the call to have your husband killed."

Ellen did not reply, and in the silence I heard someone utter a choked cry. It took me a moment to realize that the sound had come from me. I was suddenly aware that I could hardly breathe, my throat clogged by some thick liquid that slicked its sides. I felt myself cough, pain wracking my entire body, and it was then that I fully realized the extent of my injuries. I had been shot twice, and although I had sustained and lived through various injuries in the past, this was different. It donned on me then that I was dying.

I couldn't control myself as I suddenly twisted on the ground, my body reacting involuntarily to the damage it had sustained and the sudden realization that I would not recover. My limbs twitched with a final attempt to move and live. I wished I could die calmly and silently, but blood spilt down the side of my face as I continued to choke, my throat trying unsuccessfully to clear itself. My vision dimmed but I somehow managed to keep my eyes open. It seemed my training had been so engrained into my being that, even now, I couldn't relax. I was to be on alert at all times; that's what I had been told, and although my body was distracted at the moment my mind was clear and focused. I continued to listen to the conversation between Ellen and John.

"Why was he attacking you, anyway?" Ellen asked. "Does he still not remember he works for you?" I figured she was referring to me as she looked down at the man dying by her feet. Her voice was hard, holding no sympathy, and I couldn't really blame her.

"He remembers." John answered. "He also remembers I tried to have him killed."

"You really don't care about anyone, do you?" Ellen's tone clearly held disgust. "When I agreed to keep an eye out at the shelter for Sam, I didn't know he was your stepson. To be honest, when I found out, I was tempted to tell him that you knew where he was hiding. I was going to warn him."

"But you didn't," John said in a bored tone.

Ellen didn't reply for a moment. Then I felt something press against my shoulder and I was suddenly lying on my back, staring up at the black, starless sky. Ellen had used the bottom of her boot to move my useless body, and now she appeared above me. The hatred in her eyes was deep, and I knew that although most of it belonged to John, some was directed towards me as well. After all, I had been the one to physically threaten her husband. Just another job I had agreed to take, one amongst the hundreds.

I knew her husband was already dead. John never kept a hostage alive for longer than a few days. He knew people always held on to the hope that they could save their loved ones, no matter how small that hope was, and that they would do everything and anything to maintain that illusion. Ellen would continue to serve him as long as she believed her husband was still alive, but actually keeping him alive was too bothersome. I knew John had killed him a long time ago. Once Ellen figured that out, he would have her killed too. I wanted to tell her this, but I couldn't move my lips to utter the words. Instead, I met her eyes and tried to indicate what I could, but it was useless.

"Who is he, anyway?" she asked John, scowling as she looked me up and down. I looked away, wishing I didn't have to hear the words I knew were coming.

"He's my son."

There was a long moment of silence, only broken by the sound of my last struggle; the scuffs of my shoes on the metal deck as my legs moved sluggishly over its surface, as if they were trying to propel me somewhere safe and comforting; someplace that didn't exist. When Ellen spoke again, her voice was just above a whisper, her tone a mixture of fear, disbelief, and pity. "I don't understand. I thought he just worked for you. I thought-"

"Go get the money," John interrupted, his voice cold. "Go get it now."

As Ellen's footsteps receded across the deck, John appeared above me. His image was beginning to blur, but I could swear I saw something akin to sadness in his eyes. "Dean, I know this isn't how we pictured things ending," he said. "But life is never fair, is it?"

I held his gaze for a moment but my eyelids had grown too heavy. As I let them drop, John's face disappearing, I thought of Sam. I wondered if he had managed to escape, if he would make it far enough to outrun John's reach. I wished I could have protected him. I wanted so badly to fulfill my silent promise.

_"Keep Sam safe. Don't let John hurt him."_

I wanted to apologize to Mary, but I knew I would never have the chance. If there really was a heaven and a hell, we would be on opposite ends. This I knew for sure, and as my eyelids finally shut, I succumbed to the darkness hidden behind them.

\

It was the sound of a gunshot that directed me again. It had come from aboard the boat sinking at the edge of the port, and I climbed the wreck, uncaring whether I was heading towards my own death. My emotions were in control again, and right now they were telling me to find Dean. There was a horrible feeling churning in my stomach.

Upon boarding the ship, my eyes were immediately drawn to a figure standing across the deck. I knew it was John, and I felt the familiar burn of anger in my chest, but then my sight landed on a pile of something lying by his feet. It took my brain a few moments to compute what it was and I felt my body turn cold as I stared at the body. Although I couldn't see his face, I knew it was Dean.

I was falling from the bridge again. In that moment I experienced the same feeling I had felt when falling towards a lake full of sharp-edged diamonds, only this time it was even more terrifying. I knew I wouldn't survive the fall. Not now, because Dean was not here to save me.

I was suddenly shooting. I was pulling the trigger, again and again, not hesitating as I aimed at my stepfather, my hand refusing to shake. He ducked out of the way, running across the deck in a crouch. When he disappeared from my view I heard my gun click, signifying the barrel was empty, but I continued to pull the trigger. I only stopped when I became aware again of the body crumpled on the deck, and then I was kneeling beside him. Beside Dean.

Dean never answered me when I called his name. He never opened his eyes. Even when I shook his shoulders, he did not stir. I knew there was too much blood. I knew he couldn't survive that amount of blood loss. I knew that, but still my mind insisted on the opposite.

"He was already dead, Sam."

I looked over my shoulder and then stood up abruptly. John stood a few feet away, his face void of emotion. It reminded me of Dean, and in that moment it clicked. I understood it all.

"You killed your son," I stated, not quite believing that Dean was related to this monster, but somehow knowing that it was the truth.

He smirked, though it was a bitter smile. "Why does society hold family on such a pedestal? Dean was no more my son than you are, Sam. You were both just tools for me to use when I could."

"Sam!" The voice came from directly behind me. I spun around, my body instinctively reacting to the abrupt sound, and was met with an unexpected sight. Ellen Harvelle, the shrink I had spoken to at the shelter, stood with a metal pipe raised beside her. "I'm sorry," she said, and then she swung the pipe, the object cracking against my skull with a force large enough to send me to my knees again.

The pain was immediate and sharp, but after a while it dulled to a deep throbbing that radiated throughout my brain like a second pulse. As I gained my bearings I realized I was kneeling on the ship's deck, my body swaying back and forth to maintain its balance. I slowly managed to raise my head to look at my assailant. I stared at the shrink, not comprehending why she was here; why the look on her face had transformed so much from the last time I had seen her, when I had sat across from her in a tiny office I had almost considered cozy. She looked scared, her eyes wide and her thin eyebrows pulled together in worry. Even though she had just bashed my head in, I still couldn't help but think she resembled a motherly figure with that expression.

"You..." I began, but I quickly discovered how difficult it was to speak. I knew what I wanted to say, but my brain was having difficulty transmitting the words to my tongue. "You're just a shrink."

"That's not quite true, Sam." John came to stand next to Ellen. "Did you really think I didn't know of your little hideout?" He smirked, and I wanted to claw at his face. "It always offended me that you preferred to stay in a rundown shelter instead of the million–dollar home I had prepared for you and your mother. Then again, a place like that suits trash like you, doesn't it?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, my head falling between my shoulders as a wave of nausea rolled through me. I felt my body tip forward and cushioned my fall with the palms of my hands. The pain in my head heightened as the inside of my eyelids turned dark red. I took in a deep breath to try to steady myself, focusing on the coolness of the rusty metal against my fingertips. As the wave passed, I lifted my face and returned my gaze to John.

The man had turned his back, now looking over the railing and out at the water as he stood tall with his hands on his hips. I saw him inhale the dirty air, and then he was looking over his shoulder at me, his face shining brilliantly in the darkness. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked me, referring to the expanse of inky blackness.

"You can't see anything," I managed to croak out, my tongue thick in my mouth. I was trying to stand, but although I managed to get one leg beneath me, the other would not obey. I kept telling it to move, but it was like the limb had shut off. I knew there was nothing wrong with my leg. It was my brain. It wasn't working properly, unable to give the right commands.

John seemed to realize this. He walked over to me, and I was forced to crane my neck upwards to meet his eyes. Angry tears began to blur my vision, but I didn't reach a hand up to brush them away. John bent to one knee and grabbed my chin, twisting my head so that I faced him.

"What a pain in my ass you've been," he sneered. "I'm sort of glad you survived this long, just so I can kill you myself. I don't usually like getting my hands dirty, but I think I can make an exception for you."

I tried to pull my head away but my mind swam with the effort. I watched as he reached a hand out to Ellen. "Give me your gun," he commanded. In his eyes I saw the cold glee of hatred satisfied, and I knew that this was finally the end. I may have survived a 50 foot fall, but there was no way out of this one. A skull could not be reconstructed after being blown to smithereens. A brain could not function with two thirds of it missing. I was about to die.

But that was strangely all right, because what the fuck did I have to live for anyway? My parents were dead. Jo was probably suffering in the hospital, if not dead as well, and would want nothing to do with me again if she survived. Ash would move on. And Dean? I'd never feel his lips pressed against mine again, or taste his skin, or count the gold flecks in his eyes, or secretly smile at one of his sarcastic comments. I had no reason to live.

John's hand remained suspended in the air for longer than it should have. I saw the twitch of his jaw, a falter in his expression, and then he was glancing at Ellen. "I said _give me your gun_."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the police officer shake her head. "I can't let you kill an innocent child."

John's silence was brimming with irritation. His eyes fell on me once more as he said, "You're not a child anymore, are you Sam?"

I didn't respond. I could feel something warm dripping down the side of my face and as I faintly identified it as blood I wondered why Ellen was refusing to hurt me now. Then my thoughts were disrupted as a fist struck me across the face. My brain was rocked in its skull a second time as I felt my head whip to the side, a harsh gasp escaping my lips. I fell to the side and collapsed on my elbow, my head hanging loosely and my hair sweeping against the floor.

"Leave him alone!" I heard Ellen scream, her voice suddenly sounding faint, similar to a recording on an old cassette. John's mocking chuckle came next, and I allowed it to pull me back to the current situation. I found I could barely concentrate, almost all of my concentration focused on maintaining some semblance of thought, but I somehow managed to push past the swaying of my vision and watched as Ellen threatened John with her gun.

The man did not seem to take her seriously, however, because he did not obey her order. Instead, he sent a foot colliding into my chest, the force thrusting me onto my back. The air left my lungs upon impact and I was left struggling on the ground. My messed up brain was trying to force my lungs to breathe, but I wasn't sure if the signal was bad or if my lungs couldn't physically expand anymore. Fortunately, I sucked in a small breath after what seemed like a lifetime, and I gasped on the ground.

"I said leave him alone, goddammit!"

"You shoot me and your husband is a dead man too, Ellen." John was speaking seriously despite his previous laughter. "Do you want to be responsible for three deaths tonight?"

I lifted my head, the motion slow and painful, and saw the hesitation on Ellen's face. She slowly allowed her hands to fall, the gun lowering. John reached a hand out for it again and this time she placed it in his hand. He turned to me and I made sure to meet his gaze. "Any last words, Sam?"

Somehow, I smirked. "Fuck you, John," I said, my words only slightly slurred.

He narrowed his eyes as he swung the gun around and lined it up with my head. "Fucking brat," he spat, and then his finger was tightening on the trigger. I couldn't stop myself from squeezing my eyes shut, my heart thudding in my chest, but as I heard the gun click empty I was flooded with a strong wave of relief. I opened my eyes again and looked up at John, who was staring at the gun with a perplexed look.

There was a shout and then Ellen was rushing forward, the metal pipe clutched in her hands once more. She swung the weapon at John's head, eliciting a shocked yelp from the man, but he managed to lean back in time and was only clipped by the destructive force. He immediately grabbed the pipe from the woman and tore it away, shoving her to the ground. But those few seconds were all I needed.

Twisting and rising onto my one good leg, I launched myself forward, knocking into the man and pushing him back, sending us both over the ship's railing. I felt the same vertigo I had when falling from the train, but this time I was not afraid. The fall was short, and we hit the black water shortly after our feet left the metal deck. It submerged me in a matter of moments, clogging my nostrils and my ears as I struggled against John.

He was pushing me down, but it was not in an attempt to drown me. He was trying to save himself, because over the years there was only one weakness I knew John held. Water. He couldn't swim, had never learnt to.

He grabbed onto my clothes, the material already weighing me down. I wasn't strong enough to reach the surface of the water, John's weight too much as he tried to use me as a floating device. I could tell he was panicking, and I somehow kept calm as I began to pry at his hands. His anxiety made him fumble, and I managed to disentangle myself from him.

I used my hands to propel me through the water as I pushed myself away from the struggling man. I could see nothing and my one leg still refused to work, making it difficult to swim. I didn't even know which way was up or which way was down. Still, I broke the surface, gasping for air. As I swam I heard John's shouts for help, but I ignored them easily. I eventually managed to make it to one of the ladders on the port and somehow hauled myself up it, drenched and shivering and breathless, never looking back to see the fate of my stepfather.

When I finally pulled myself over the edge of the port and collapsed on the concrete I threw up the dirty water I had swallowed in the river, rolling onto my back and staring up at the night sky as I shivered in the cold. I couldn't hear anything anymore. It was like my ears had been plugged, and soon my vision began to grow fuzzy. I knew I had some sort of concussion. I knew something was wrong with my brain, and perhaps that's why I felt like laughing. I wanted to laugh so that everything would be all right again, because people don't laugh when things are wrong. They don't laugh when people are dead.

But I coughed instead of laughed, and as I lay on the concrete I suddenly felt exhausted. So I allowed my eyes to close, and I really didn't give a fuck if they ever reopened.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter XVI**

/

"_You left your world exposed, long gone._"

- _Far Away_, Washed Out

/

I awoke to the sound of humming. At first it sounded faint, like it was coming from a room located down a long hallway, but then the noise began to grow louder. Someone was humming a tune that sounded familiar, though I couldn't quite summon the exact name of the song. I laid there in the darkness for a while, my mind concentrated on identifying the tune. Then it clicked. REO Speedwagon. Someone was humming REO Speedwagon's _Can't Fight This Feeling_.

As the humming grew clearer, I couldn't identify the voice, but I began to notice other things. It was as if each of my senses were individually returning to me, my body discovering each with time. Touch was next. I became aware of a softness covering my back. I thought maybe I had been covered with a blanket of some sort, but then my sense of space shifted and I realized I was lying down on something soft. Perhaps a bed.

As I tried to figure out my surroundings through touch alone, I was quickly distracted by a sharp smell. The only word I could come up with to describe it was 'sterile'. It smelt like chemicals had been spilt and then scrubbed clean, only to leave their pungent odour behind. Luckily, I could not taste them. My tongue felt dry, in fact, and I had a sudden, desperate urge for water.

Sight was the last sense to return to me, taking my mind off the thirst that pestered me. A white ceiling met my eyes as they slowly opened, and putting all the pieces together, I immediately knew that I was in a hospital room. Confusion filled me, for as hard as I tried, I couldn't recall the events that had placed me here. I turned my head to the side and expected something to throb in pain, but it was impossible to pinpoint what was wrong with me. My skull felt like it was full of expanding dough. It was heavy and thick, and I figured it was the effect of the morphine that was probably being pumped through my veins.

That's when I realized what I was staring at. Jo was sitting on a chair next to my bed, her attention focused on something in her lap I couldn't see. My heart leapt as I saw her. Was this a dream? I couldn't trust that Jo was really alive. I remained silent for a few minutes, afraid to call her name and break the illusion. She looked good, her face flushed with a healthy pink and her blonde hair shining in the streams of sunlight that slipped through the blinds from the window behind her. It was like the picture in my head, the one where Jo was bloody and dying, had never happened. Like it was all just a nightmare.

Jo... Dying... Of course. Meg had shot her. Then Dean had shot Meg. As I continued to stare at the humming girl, bits and pieces of the previous night began to return to me. I recalled encountering John on the port, and in a rushing wave everything was flowing back into position. All of the information that had been revealed was returning, and I felt my heart begin to quicken in my chest. An image of Dean's limp body on the deck of the rotting boat flashed in my mind and I suddenly couldn't breathe. I was dimly aware of a beeping sound which seemed to be increasing in pace, and somewhere in my mind I registered that the humming had abruptly stopped. But Dean's image was now all I could see, his body sprawled on the deck like a hunk of meat on a butcher's cutting board, John standing by it.

I was suddenly reliving the previous night. Confusion filled me as Ellen's face appeared, and then I was falling into a sea of darkness. Hands pulled at me, trying to pull me down, but I fought against them. I broke the surface and gasped for air, and then hard concrete was beneath me. I should have been safe, but hands were grabbing at me again. They were pushing me down now, and I wanted to scream as I struggled to sit up; as I tried to find Dean again. I wasn't strong enough, however, and I let the hands push me down, submitting to their will. I had nothing left to fight with.

That's when I heard Jo's voice. "Sam! You're awake! Holy fuck, you're awake!" The hands released me as soon as I laid still and I opened my eyes again, realizing I had squeezed them shut at some point. I saw Jo, but this time she was standing by my bed, her chair pushed back. She was looking down at me with a mixture of concern and joy, practically bouncing up and down. I wondered if it was safe for her to be jumping around with her recent injuries and worried that she would collapse on the ground at any moment. I tried to speak, to tell her to calm down, but my throat had obviously not been used in a while. All that came out was a pathetic croaking sound.

"Sam, please stay calm," another female voice said. I shifted my vision to my right and was met with the face of a young nurse. She was blonde and pretty, but something in her eyes told me she was not one to be messed with. I wondered why she was telling _me_ to calm down. "I know you're confused, but I just have to perform a few routine tests." A light burned my retinas as she examined my eyes. I had about a thousand questions I wanted to ask, but I still couldn't speak. She made a few more observations and then she was asking me to try to move my right leg. I didn't care about these tests. I attempted to sit up instead, wanting so badly to talk, but the nurse pushed me back down again. "Please, Sam. You have to take it easy."

I shook my head, trying to sit up once more, but this time Jo gently shoved me back against the bed. She leaned over and stared me straight in the eyes, a 'no-nonsense' look on her face. The expression made her look older and wiser than her actual age, and I found myself listening to what she said next. "Sam, you need to listen to Ruby. She's been attending to you for months now, and considering the fact that you just woke up from a coma, I think you need to take a second to relax. Got it? Now stop being a dumbass and try to lift your leg."

I blinked, attempting to compute what she had just said. A coma? Months? That was ridiculous. The whole ordeal at the loading docks had just taken place last night. I'd only been out for a few hours. There was no way that _months_ had passed. There was no fucking way. Jo obviously saw the panic and confusion on my face, because her expression softened as she reached a hand out and brushed my hair back. "Oh, Sam. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about everything." She smiled sadly. "But you're okay now. You're safe."

I needed to speak. I needed to _say_ something. I opened my mouth again, this time managing to croak out something intelligible. "How long?"

Jo straightened, the warmth of her hand leaving my face. "Three months, five days, and..." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "...fourteen hours."

I swallowed nonexistent saliva, the motion painful. Three months? I had been dead to the world for _three_ fucking months? I wondered what had passed during that time. The next words that left my cracked lips were even more difficult to say. "Where's Dean?"

Jo's expression crumpled. She immediately looked away, her voice becoming quiet and timid. "I'm sorry, Sam... I'm so sorry. I-"

"No more questions," the nurse said sternly, and I suddenly felt the urge to hit her. I didn't give a fuck whether she had taken care of me, whether or not she had given me a sponge bath every week or changed my bedpan every day. I wanted to punch her for denying me the information I was asking for.

"Where's Dean?" I asked again, ignoring the nurse, my eyes drilling holes into Jo. The young girl's mouth was open but no words were coming forth. Her eyes were wide and glossy, and I could tell she didn't know what to say. "Where's Dean, Jo?" My tone had grown stronger but harsher as well. She wasn't giving me an answer, and I needed one.

"He's..." She hesitated again. "He's gone, Sam."

I remained silent for a long moment. The nurse had left in a huff, probably to go fetch a doctor, and it was only me and Jo now. "Gone?"

She nodded her head and I could tell she was on the verge of tears but struggling to hold them back. "Sam, I'm so-"

"_Where the fuck is Dean_?" I suddenly screamed, the strength in my voice surprising even myself. Jo shrank back in surprise, her face paling. I had frightened her, but I didn't give a shit. "Where the fuck is he?" I sat up, my entire body protesting. I was surprised at how weak my body was, but I somehow managed to push through my exhaustion, demanding the same answer over and over again.

I was only dimly aware of others entering the room. My focus was locked on Jo as I continued to shout. She still wasn't answering me. Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks as she stared at me in horror. Some part of me felt sorry for causing that expression, but it was only a small part. "Where the fuck is he? Tell me where he is!" I was screaming at no one in particular now. A number of figures had surrounded me and were trying to calm me down. I was trying to swing my legs over the side of the bed, but they were tangled in the bed sheets. I clawed at the soft fabric, attempting to tear it away. My head was swimming, my sight blurring. Still, I struggled against the hands that were now gripping me, pushing me back.

"Tell me where he is!" I sobbed. "Tell me where the fuck he is!"

Something pinched my arm and everything began to slow. My eyelids grew unbearably heavy as I looked around me. Several hospital staff were crowded around my bed. The nurse from earlier was leaning over me as I slowly fell back. Her lips were moving but I couldn't hear what she was saying. My eyes flickered to my left and I caught a glimpse of Jo standing by the window. Her hands were covering her face, her small shoulders shaking. I tried to say I was sorry, to apologize for making her cry, but I was too tired. I didn't want to think anymore, so I closed my eyes and slipped into darkness again.

/

Flashes of light. Distant voices. The strange feeling of being carried. To be honest, I didn't remember much of the ending of that night. Only bits and pieces came to mind when I tried to recall what occurred after I let my stepfather drown in the filthy water of the Narrows.

I did remember Dean, though. I could recall every detail, every clench of his jaw, every rise of his chest, every glance he gave me that night. I could still envision his eyes as he turned to me and said he remembered. That he remembered everything. I still wasn't quite sure what 'everything' meant, but his voice was clear in my mind. It echoed against the walls of the hallway I found myself walking down. I couldn't remember how I had gotten here, but some distant part of me knew I was dreaming. The wheel of my IV pole was broken and its squeakiness was beginning to get on my nerves.

It didn't help that my leg wasn't working properly, so I had to limp my way across the clean tiles, my bare feet feeling chilly against their smooth texture. The few nurses, doctors, and patients that passed me didn't give me a second glance. They were all too busy with their own problems. They didn't care that I was about to confront the son of the man who had made my life a living hell. I wondered if Dean would be upset, but something told me he would probably be happy to hear his father was no longer alive.

Room 256.

I was unsure how long I had been walking for, but it seemed like I'd never reach room 282. Who had told me the room number? No matter how hard I tried to remember, I couldn't. I supposed it had something to do with the damage my brain had sustained. Where the fuck was Ellen, anyway? She had some explaining to do.

Room 262.

I wondered if Jo was somewhere here too. I wanted to ask one of the nurses, to find out if she was okay, but I never tried to approach one. They were moving too quickly for me to get their attention.

Room 271.

This was a damn long hallway. It seemed my foot was growing heavier. Every step I took, it dragged a little more. Each step took more effort, like something was making it harder for me to move forward; an invisible force that was warning me away.

Room 275.

What was I supposed to say to him? What would he say to me? It felt like months since we had spoken. I subtly remembered that it actually had been, but that thought was lost in a tangle of new ones as I continued down the hallway.

Room 280.

I knew there was not enough time to discuss everything. I knew our time together was limited. Still, I knew I had to see him.

Room 282.

I stopped in front of the door, wishing that the blinds on the small window weren't drawn and that I could glance in. I wanted to assess the situation before I threw myself into it. Instead, I took a deep breath and prepared myself. Then I pushed open the door and hobbled into the small hospital room. As soon as I entered it was like the weight that had been steadily pushing against me was gone. I felt light and unburdened, my leg suddenly working fine. I watched my feet step forward with ease, leaving the IV pole behind me. I only looked up when I came to stand at the end of the bed and could walk no further.

Dean was lying in a tangle of white bed sheets, legs sprawled out and forearms creating a cushion for the back of his head. He was shirtless, the scars on his chest standing out against the harsh lighting of the hospital room. On the sides of his torso I could see the very edges of the tattoo that sprawled across his back, the tips of the feathers appearing as black lines drawn across his pale skin. "You're here" he said, smirking, and I felt a flood of relief at that familiar grin. "I didn't think you'd come."

I smiled back, forgetting the thing that had separated us in the first place. I noted that Dean's room was similar to mine except for the lack of beeping machines cluttered around his bedside. I felt my smile falter, and soon I was frowning again. His face looked worn, and I noticed the white bandages wrapped around his abdomen were stained red. "You're hurt," was all I said, though it wasn't what I wanted to say.

He attempted to sit up, but quickly fell back again, a hand gripping his side and a grimace contorting his features. "It's nothing."

I shook my head in disbelief at his nonchalant response. "You almost died."

He shrugged. "Nothing new. For either of us, it seems."

I had to laugh at that, strange as it was. "Jo seems to think you're dead," I said, my tone unsure.

"I thought_ Jo_ was dead," he countered, chuckling slightly. "She had me worried there for a while."

"I think I made her cry today," I admitted, guilt causing my head to dip. "She said you were gone, and I... kind of lost it."

Dean was silent for a moment and I wanted to look up, to see his reaction, but I couldn't raise my head. "I'm glad the little firecracker's alive," he finally said. "But I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I was out of the picture, if you know what I mean."

I knew Jo was not what we were supposed to be talking about, but I was too afraid to change the subject. "Jo would never think that way," I defended her weakly, finally able to raise my eyes. "She was crying and shit. All for you."

"Really?" Dean looked a little uncomfortable as he removed his hand from his side and crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers stained red. "Tell her she should quit it."

I bit my lip, looking at the blood that was smeared on his arms and chest now. I wondered briefly if I should call a nurse or a doctor, but then I recalled that they were all busy. It seemed I was the only one here who cared whether Dean lived or died. "What if she's right?" I whispered, the bright red of his blood holding my gaze.

"Can't get rid of me that easily. I'm a stubborn bastard. Remember the first time we met?" He smirked, obviously recalling his unbreakable will to follow me. However, his expression quickly turned to confusion. "Wait, what are you doing here?"

I was puzzled by his comment, but then I remembered what I had been too scared to talk about before. "You lied," I accused him. "You told me you killed her-"

"I never said that," he interrupted me, his face grave. He glanced away, his head turning to the side but his eyes not focusing on anything in particular. His next words were much quieter. "I didn't save her though."

My frown deepened as I examined the wound on his side. "I did that to you, didn't I?"

He sighed and looked at the bloody bandages, like we were on a subject he didn't want to talk about. "I deserved worse."

My eyebrows cut downwards. "I don't understand..." I trailed off as I saw a pool of blood spread across the bed sheets in red ribbons, seeming to originate from behind him. The liquid quickly reached the edges of the bed and began to spill over onto clean tiles. "Dean, you're bleeding so much!" I remarked. "Are you hurt somewhere else?"

"You're not supposed to be here," he cut in, his voice carrying an edge. "You should go."

I should have felt anger at his sudden change, but I only felt sadness. "Things can never go back to the way they were, can they?"

He shrugged, as if the answer was so evident it wasn't even worth giving. "I told you I didn't want my memories back."

He was avoiding my eyes, and I couldn't help but be drawn to the side of his bed. I felt the warmth of his blood beneath my feet as I stepped in the puddle collecting beside him. I could hear his breath catch in his throat as I reached a hand down to touch his cheek. "You were supposed to be dead," I whispered. He was still refusing to look at me, so I passed my fingers through his hair, gently pulling his head back. He closed his eyes as I leaned down, our noses almost touching. "I forgive you," I whispered against his lips, my eyelids slipping down as well.

Then we touched; a soft, gentle kiss that lasted only a moment before I was pulling away again. I could feel Dean's exhale as I receded; a faint warmth on my skin. He looked at me, his eyes fully open, glossy and wide. But then his eyelids became heavy, sliding downward until I could barely see the emerald behind them. He reached a hand upwards, playfully tugging my messy hair. A smile touched his lips, the corners of his mouth slightly rising. "You need to get a haircut."

I let out a huff as I let my head fall forward, shielding my eyes from Dean so he wouldn't be able to see the tears that gathered there. "You're not real are you?"

"Of course not, Sammy."

/

When I awoke again, Jo was not sitting next to me. There was no humming to be heard, only the soft, repetitive beeping of the heart monitor standing next to my bed. I stared at the whitewashed ceiling for a long moment, recalling the strange dream I had just had. My lips still tingled, but I quickly shoved the dream from my head as I recalled the blood that had soaked the sheets around Dean, wondering why I had reacted to it as calmly as I had.

I slowly raised myself into a slightly upright position, my head still feeling heavy and sluggish. For a second I believed I was alone, but then I noticed a figure standing in the corner of the room. The individual was wearing a dark coat and hovering near the door, like being close to an escape route was a necessity. My vision was blurry but it eventually began to focus, and then I recognized her. It was Ellen Harvelle.

A combination of feelings flooded me, the dominant one being confusion. As soon as she realized I had become aware of her she seemed to begin to panic. However, she quickly gained her composure again and took a few tentative steps towards me. I watched silently, not quite sure how to feel about her presence. I was debating whether I should fear her or be thankful for what she had done, or maybe just what she hadn't done.

"Hello, Sam," she said, an unsure smile flickering across her lips. I nodded once in response, not feeling the urge to reply verbally. "I heard you were able to move your leg. That's good. I was worried that... I was worried that I'd injured you permanently."

I felt anger at her casual tone. "Why'd you hit me?" I asked, and the pain in my voice surprised me. I realized then that I had trusted Ellen, and that she had betrayed me. That hurt, probably more than the feeling of a metal pipe striking me across the head.

Before she could answer, the door opened and the nurse from before entered. She looked startled when she saw Ellen. "You're not supposed to be in here," she said, her voice sharp. "Please leave immediately."

Ellen gave her a glance but then returned her gaze to me. "Dean's dead, Sam," she said. "That's what you wanted to know, wasn't it?" She walked forward and collapsed in the chair next to me. She let out a heavy sigh, but it was controlled, like she was trying to keep her emotions in reign. "I was confused," she said after a moment, not looking at me but staring at the white sheets of my hospital bed. "I thought I could save someone if I hurt you, but I was wrong. And I realized that even if I could have saved him, it was not worth hurting you in the process."

I wondered who she was speaking about, but then I remembered something John had said. "Your husband," I filled in the blank, and watched as she nodded her head slowly. Her eyes were unfocused, and I could tell she was remembering a past event.

"Please, you have to leave. Sam is not supposed to have any visitors," the nurse said, but Ellen ignored her.

"John had my husband held hostage. He wanted me to do some favours for him and he knew it was the only way he could control me. I'm not a shrink, as you probably already know. I'm actually a police officer. Well..." she paused, smiling bitterly. "I _used_ to be a cop. To be honest, I'm not quite sure why I'm not locked up in some jail myself right now."

I frowned, feeling pity for the woman. "Anything you did wrong, you were doing it for your husband."

She shrugged, but I could tell that guilt was weighing heavily down on her. "All of it was for nothing. William was dead a long time ago. I should have never believed John's words. I could have prevented so much of this..."

"I could have as well," I admitted. "We all make mistakes, Ellen."

Maybe it was the use of her name, but she looked over at me now. "I'm so sorry, Sam. For everything."

I closed my eyes for a second, relishing the darkness now. I nodded, feeling extremely sleepy again. For some reason, I no longer felt anger towards her. "I know, Ellen. You can make it up to me if you'd like."

"How?"

"Give Jo a place to stay. Take care of her, would you?"

I could hear her chuckle. "I've been trying."

"Excuse me," the annoying nurse cut in again. "But you have to leave _right_ now, or else I'll have to call security."

Ellen nodded. "I'm leaving."

I stopped her before she left. "Ellen," I called, and she halted in front of the open doorway, looking over her shoulder at me. "How did he die?" I was afraid of the answer. I remembered the hot gun in my hand; recalled the blood that had soaked the front of my shirt when Dean had pushed himself off of me and had gone to find John.

She was silent for a moment, as if she was contemplating the answer. "Gunshot wound," she answered, and my heart sank. Before I could say anything else, she was out the door.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


	17. Epilogue

**A/N:** I suck at endings...

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><p><strong><span>Epilogue<span>**

/

"_One day, when the skies have fallen, you will hear them calling_."

- _One Day_, Saskia Sansom

/

The sun was shining on the day I left New York City. As I stared at it, the tinted glass of the window the only thing protecting my eyes from the intensity of its rays, I realized this was probably the first time in a long time that I felt somewhat at peace. My focus shifted to encompass the entire scene before me, the sun appearing as a glowing orb hanging in the blue sky above a golden field. In the distance, I could see the outline of mountains, their peaks disrupting the flat horizon. The train was traveling at a steady pace, allowing its passengers to observe the scenery with great detail, and I took it all in with a calm hopefulness.

I was going to California, and I had a ticket this time. It had been generously given to me by Ellen, who had insisted I accept it as a farewell present. I had protested, of course, because of all the things she had already done for me. She was the entire reason I was heading down to California in the first place. During her many hospital visits she had convinced me that I still had a choice to make: I could allow myself to succumb to tragedy, or I could forge a path for myself from the pieces of my life I still had left. She had persuaded me to carry on with my life and to take my SATs, remembering what I had told her all those months ago about wanting to become a lawyer. College would be a large adjustment from the bustling city, but I was up for the change and the challenges it presented.

As I watched a crumbling barn house glide by, its splintering red wood brilliant in the sunlight, I was abruptly reminded of the train ride I had taken with Dean the morning after we had first met. In some ways I had felt almost as calm as I was now, for it was also a moment of peace after a period of confusion and panic. I recalled lying on the train compartment floor, laughing, and then waking up to find Dean sitting in the shadows. Looking back on it now, it seemed he had always felt comfort in the shadows, wrapped in their dark softness.

I felt as if my entire body was sinking for a moment, and I glanced away from the window, suddenly uninterested in the scenes it offered. My eyes fell on a newspaper that the man sitting across from me had sprawled across his lap. Scanning it quickly, I was relieved to find that the top story did not involve John in some way. The corpse of my stepfather had been found a few days after I had fallen into my coma. Apparently his body had been bloated and nibbled on by fish when it had washed ashore a few miles down the coast, but it had been positively identified as him. The news of his death had been a large story, for with it came snatches of his dark history. As investigations into his death proceeded, people had finally seen him for who he truly was; a criminal. A murderer. My mother had finally received the justice she deserved.

Reporters had tried to interview me on several occasions after I had awoken, but I only agreed to speak with the FBI when they contacted me. Although I tried not to lie to them, I found it was a difficult task to accomplish, especially since they were so tight-lipped themselves. They refused to part with any information regarding Dean and John, not even telling me where their bodies were to be buried. Even so, I told them everything I thought would be helpful to their investigation, only leaving out bits and pieces of the time I had spent with Dean, including our more intimate moments. Although short, it was a complicated history we had. Recounting it made my own head spin, and reliving it through my words was not something I felt I was even capable of doing. If I was being honest with myself, I knew I would probably never be able to speak about Dean in any great depth to anyone else.

I had stayed away from newspapers for some time afterward, ever since Jo and I had spoken about the type of news they were delivering. Although I could say my mother was finally able to rest in peace after her murder was revealed and her name cleared, I could not say the same for Dean. I thought back angrily on that day as I stared at the newspaper's fine print, not quite seeing the words but only the black smudges they made against the thin paper.

_"You and Ellen are kind of like heroes. You've been in the paper and everything," Jo said, half-concentrating on the textbook in her lap. Living at Ellen's place seemed to be good for her, since rule number one was that she attended school regularly. Apparently Jo's old refuge, the shelter, had been closed after the gunfight that had exploded there, and it was unlikely that it would ever be reopened. I didn't quite know how to feel about that, having both good and bad memories connected to the place._

_"The paper?" I raised an eyebrow, not quite believing her. "What does it say?"_

_"Oh, you know, just about how you and Ellen managed to take down one of the most wanted men in America. Turns out your stepfather was the kingpin of more than one operation in more than one city. He was a powerful man, Sam, and you stopped his reign of terror." I looked at her like she was crazy. "What?" she shrugged. "Those are the words the paper used."_

_"But I killed him," I said. "I committed a crime."_

_Jo scoffed. "You killed him in self-defense. If anything, you did the police a favour. Apparently even the FBI has been trying to take him down. I heard they swooped in and took charge almost right after everything happened. That's why there's not really much detail in the papers about your stepfather. The story just got blown up because the FBI labelled everything top secret without giving up any information and people are wondering why they're being so secretive."_

_I tried to take in everything she was saying. To be honest, I had been worried that the FBI were going to come with handcuffs when they came to question me a few days earlier, but after hearing Jo's account I was shocked to find out that I was being called some kind of hero. "I don't want to be in the papers…" I mumbled._

_Jo sniggered. "Don't worry. Ellen asked if your name could be kept secret. No one knows who you actually are."_

_I felt relief flood me. I didn't want to have to deal with reporters and have cameras and microphones shoved in my face. It had been bad enough speaking to a shrink; I wasn't ready to speak to a nation._

_A thought struck me. "What about Dean? Does the paper mention him at all?"_

_Jo sighed, dropping the heavy textbook next to her chair. "Of course it does."_

_"What does it say?" I asked, eager to know._

_"You're not going to like it."_

_"Tell me," I ordered her._

_"Dean wasn't always a good person, Sam. He did a lot of bad stuff. He worked for John and he killed a lot of people."_

_"They make him out to be the bad guy, don't they?" My voice was full of bitterness._

_"Of course they do," Jo proclaimed. "He _was_ a bad guy, Sam. I know he helped you and I know you had..." She trailed off, and I could see a flash of hurt flicker across her features. "He wasn't good."_

_"He saved my life," I countered, my voice rising. I could feel a flood of anger begin to well up inside of me. "He probably saved yours too. He was a good person. I don't care about the things he did. He wasn't like John. He was good."_

_Jo sighed again. "I know you really believe that, Sam, but if you read the papers... If you found out all the things he had done-"_

_"I don't want to read the fucking papers," I snarled. "I don't care what those bastards have to say about him. They didn't know Dean. They don't have a fucking clue what he was like."_

_Jo was looking at me sadly and it pissed me off. "Sam, how much did you really know about him?"_

_Fuck. She was right. "I knew enough," I said lamely, but it wasn't the truth._

_An uncomfortable silence spread between us and I didn't know what to say to fill it. There was nothing to be said. Before I could change that, a doctor entered with the nurse and Jo was asked to leave. They performed a number of intricate tests on me, always speaking a medical lingo I could never even dream of understanding._

I still didn't know what had been real about Dean, but it didn't matter now. He was gone.

I was pulled from my thoughts as my right leg began to tingle as if it was asleep. I tried to shift its position but it disobeyed me, remaining still. I knocked on my thigh with my fist several times, frustration causing me to increase the strength of each blow. The man across from me looked at me strangely and I glanced away, sitting back in my chair. Although they did not occur frequently, and I knew I was lucky to be able to walk at all, these episodes of paralysis always caused me frustration. I chewed my lip as I sat quietly, waiting for the moment to pass. Within a minute I found my leg reacted to my thoughts normally again, and I let out a sigh of relief. It wasn't so much the momentary paralysis itself that frustrated me, but the thought that it might not be so temporary the next time.

Apparently the blow to my head had damaged the part of my brain connected to motor skills. My doctor had been worried that I would never be able to move my leg properly again, but while it was tough to control at first, I had steadily improved with physical therapy. Now, several months later, I could easily walk on my own. I still had a slight limp and moments of paralysis, but I had been told that both would disappear with time. I hoped that the look of horror that claimed Ellen's features every time she saw me struggle was something that would fade away as well. I had forgiven her a long time ago for what she had done, but it seemed she had not forgiven herself.

A large man suddenly walked passed me, his hulking mass barely squeezing between the rows of seats. I felt my heart leap in terror, but as he continued down the aisle I forced myself to relax. It had been my idea to take a train to California, even though Ellen had offered to buy me a plane ticket. I wanted to convince myself that there was no longer anything to fear; that I would never be forced to jump off a train again in order to avoid being shot. Still, even with my stepfather dead, I couldn't stop from being cautious.

I recalled a moment that still made me uneasy. It had occurred on the day I was discharged from the hospital. It had been agreed that I would live in Ellen's new apartment, where I was planning to stay for the few weeks before I took my SATs, and I had been packing the last of my belongings. Ruby had come into the room with paperwork for me to complete.

_I signed where the nurse directed, but she didn't leave afterwards. She gave me a strange look instead, her eyes refusing to leave me._

_"What?" I asked, feeling uncomfortable beneath her stare._

_She smiled, though the expression didn't reach her eyes. "I just noticed you scowl exactly like him."_

_"Like who?" I asked, puzzled._

_She shook her head, dismissing the topic. "Let's just say nurture sometimes wins over nature, shall we?" Then she gathered the papers and walked steadily out of the room. I watched her go, an uneasiness building in my gut but with no obvious origin. The nurse's words had unsettled me, but I decided to place the feeling aside as I gathered my sparse belongings and took one last look around the room. I wouldn't miss it in the least._

I shook my head now, trying to forget Ruby and her words. Strict and curt and sometimes even sarcastic, the blonde nurse had said her job was to make sure I was comfortable while I recovered fully, but I was pretty sure her true purpose was to torture me. She had rarely let visitors enter my room, and I wasn't able to apologize to Jo for nearly five days after having caused her tears. Ash had a crazy working schedule and was always turned away when he came to visit at odd times, so the best I could do was receive his condolences over the phone. Ellen was the only one who was not scared of Ruby's wrath, so she had come by the most, and had eventually opened her home to me.

Strangely enough, that brief time at Ellen's apartment had been one of the happiest memories of my life. Jo had lost a home but had found a new one. Ellen had lost her husband but had gained a daughter. I had lost almost everything I had cared about, but in return I could finally live my life peacefully. No longer was I afraid of my stepfather and the things he was capable of. I had passed my SATs with flying colours and was now on my way to living a normal life.

Jo and Ash had promised to visit as soon as possible. Ash was already saving up for the trip, working in a mechanic shop that actually paid pretty well. I recalled the grin he had on his oil-smeared face as he waved goodbye to me, his navy blue uniform strangely fitting him. Jo had insisted on seeing me off at the train station, of course. Her mascara had looked awful, pooling beneath her eyes and running down her cheeks, as she hugged me goodbye. Then I had turned to Ellen. She had looked like she had wanted to say something more after she had bid me farewell, and it reminded me of that time in her office, when she had obviously had something else to tell me. But she had quickly pressed her lips together in a tight smile, and I had decided to let whatever she had wanted to say slip by unspoken.

Now I was on a train, heading somewhere new and unfamiliar. I knew that even though things were changing there would be no new beginning for me, but I didn't want one. I had lived my life in fear for far too long, and because of my cowardice I had lost almost everything I cared about. I had met a man who many believed was bad but who I knew to be good, and I had caused his death even after he had helped me. There were many mistakes in my past, but I was willing to correct what I could. I would become a lawyer, and when I began to stop corrupt men like John, no one would be able to call me a kid again.

_"I wish I could have chosen a better ending."_ Those had been Dean's last words to me. My past was painful, there was no denying it, but it wouldn't stop me from choosing my own ending. I looked down at my hands as they rested on my lap. Flipping my left one over, a tattoo was revealed on the inside of my wrist. It looked somewhat like a man walking towards an open gate, and the word it represented was one I would never forget.

_Mercy_.

My Guardian Angel.

/

Ellen Harvelle sat on the couch of her inner city apartment, a beer in one hand and the television on mute, showing a repeat of Little House on the Prairie. On her lap was a picture frame, her husband's smiling face peering out of the photograph. It had been taken at an NYPD Christmas party three years ago, William's Santa hat making her fight the urge to smile. She sighed as she placed the frame on the coffee table. Every night she wondered what he had gone through; how he had died; what had been done to him. It drove her mad not to know.

She probably would have gone crazy by now if it wasn't for Jo. The kid was a bit on the wild side, but she was the only thing Ellen had left, now that her job had been taken from her as well. She was out with friends from school at the moment, which was why Ellen found herself watching reruns and drinking beer while mourning her deceased husband. Jo had adjusted to her new life with an ease only capable of a young girl who was used to living off her own wits. She had fit in at school with no problems, even if she was much older than those in her grade. Having skipped a few years of school, she was far behind, but Ellen knew she would catch up soon enough. If she could get over Sam leaving, of course.

Jo still blamed Ellen for having given Sam the idea of leaving New York City, and although she was giving her the silent treatment at the moment, Ellen also knew Jo was not much for holding grudges. She would come around eventually, and the tiff they were in now was sort of a welcome incident. It made Ellen feel like she really did have a teenage daughter.

She gulped down another mouthful of the bitter beer, remembering Sam's expression as they said their farewells at the train station. She had been glad to see him go, but not because she disliked the boy. In fact, if it had not been for the dark history between them, she would have easily opened her home to him for longer. The problem was, every time she saw his face she was reminded of the horrible deeds she had committed. Not just her turning a blind eye to crime, but the fact that she had almost cost Sam his life. Those few months when he had remained in a coma had felt excruciatingly long to her, and even when relief had come upon news that he had awoken, there had still been the fear that he would never be able to walk again. Although it was estimated that he would recover fully with time, Ellen was more afraid of his mental state.

Jo had hinted that something more than friendship had existed between Sam and Dean, and she realized now that it was true. Even so, she had not been able to summon the courage to tell him that she was the one responsible for Dean's death. She was afraid of the look of despise that would claim Sam's features if she told him the truth; that it was she who had buried a bullet in Dean's back. Thankfully, the FBI had taken over matters immediately after that night at the port. Specific information about Dean's death had become top secret information, and only a select few knew that Ellen was a murderer. Another bullet wound had been found in Dean's side, probably received from John or one of his henchmen, but it had not been the killing shot. It had been Ellen's bullet, which had buried itself in one of Dean's ribs, cracking it and causing it to puncture several major organs, which had caused the man to bleed to death.

She was about to take another swig of her beer when she felt something cold and metallic kiss her temple. "Don't move," a voice said next to her ear, and she found the command easy to obey, her body tensing immediately. "I want you to listen to me very closely," the gruff voice continued. "I will be watching you from now on. You will not see me, you will not hear from me again, but I will always be close by."

She clenched her teeth, trying to summon the courage to speak in a steady tone. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"I want you to understand that I have not forgiven you, even though Sam may have."

She felt a cold shiver run down her spine. "Who are you?" she whispered, though she already knew.

"Just a myth," the intruder answered after a pause. "You hurt him again and I will kill you."

Then something hard slammed against the side of her head and she dropped into unconsciousness. When she awoke, it was already late morning. Her beer had spilled and had soaked into the cushions of the couch. She cursed as she rubbed her head, wondering how drunk she had gotten last night. Then she remembered the stranger who had broken into her apartment and had threatened her.

"He misses you," she said aloud. She half-expected a reply, but when there was none she shook her head, pain lacing through her skull. She couldn't help but shiver.

**THE END.**

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><p><strong>AN: ** Thank you to everyone who read this far, especially those who left a review. I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did.

And for all of you enquiring, there will be a sequel :)


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